Three Little Indians Emergency!
by Hunter E. Black
Summary: After losing a patient who should not have died, Johnny’s behavior changes radically, leading Roy to learn too much of his partner’s past, with no idea of the consequences that will bring.
1. Chapter 1

**Three Little Indians**  
(Book I in The Firedance Trilogy)  
~ Part 1 of 7 ~  
Copyright © September 2002; Revised, January 2010 by Hunter E. Black

Any version of this story that does not contain the © date of 2010 is obsolete.

Genre: Drama  
Pairing: Johnny Gage/Roy DeSoto (slash? Intense friendship); John Gage/Other  
Rated: MA Rape; graphic violence; adult situations.

Author's Note: Neither the title of this story nor any reference to "Indians" in the text is intended to offend any Native Americans of any tribe. The author grew up when the term Indian was not considered demeaning, or pejorative. However, the term is used in that way by one character in the story, and the author sincerely hopes he is well-hated.

Author's Disclaimers: This story is written for pleasure and is not intended to violate any preexisting copyrights. You may download a copy for your personal use, but not for profit. All characters and incidents in this story are products of the writer's imagination and/or based upon the TV series, Emergency! Any relation to any persons living or dead is really a stretch, if you ask me!

* * *

_**Three Little Indians**_**  
(Book I in The Firedance Trilogy)**

**Prologue: October 1976**

"All rise!"

The courtroom was packed with reporters.

Firefighter/ paramedic Roy DeSoto stood with the rest of the observers and court personnel. He stood with the defendant. He stood with Captain Hank Stanley, the only other member of A-shift from Station 51 who had voluntarily come to the opening of the trial.

Roy was grateful for that: he didn't want the full list of charges against the defendant read in front of Chet, Marco, and Mike. Not that they wouldn't have been supportive, in their own ways. But even the LA Times had declined to list some of the more sensational charges, and Roy was glad that he wouldn't have to face a crew of men who had heard them all.

Captain Stanley was another matter. Roy had learned a lot about his Captain in the past months. And all he had learned made him grateful that the man was here, today.

Whether John Gage shared that feeling, Roy couldn't tell. Of course, Roy had had a hard time being able to tell much about his partner's state of mind for some time. He'd refused all offers assistance, especially those that indicated he might need any psychological counseling. After months of administrative leave, he'd returned to the station and carried out his duties without any sign of what he'd been through. Or that he was weeks away from facing one of the most grueling ordeals of his life.

But now that the jury had been seated and the trial had started; now that the opening remarks from both the prosecutions for the State of California and the defendant were about to begin, Roy tried to catch a glimpse of his partner. He couldn't.

Johnny wasn't sitting with him and Captain Stanley: he sat in front of them, his back to the crowded courtroom. No fewer than four FBI agents surrounded him. Roy knew only one of them.

"This court is in session," the bailiff announced. "The Honorable Craig Robertson presiding."

The judge tapped his gavel and took his seat. The rest of the court room sat as well.

Opening statements began immediately. The primary charge of first degree murder carried a mandatory life sentence. The other charges, all carefully lined up to bolster the first, could result in a total of several lifetimes in prison for the defendant. From his seat several rows back, Roy saw Johnny lean forward, his head resting in his hands, as the charges were enumerated and described by the prosecuting attorney.

_"I'm a walking, talking lie, Roy! And no one sees through it, not even you..." _

Next to him, Roy was aware of the Captain's response to some of the charges, charges he'd been unaware of until now.

"Dear God," he whispered. His face was impassive, but his words were filled with horror.

The prosecutor's statements were carefully chosen to create anger and revulsion in the jury over the heinous acts committed by the defendant. The defense's position was to down-play the severity, motivations, and reality of the alleged crimes.

_"The worst thing is, I learned I could live with it. Make excuses. Justify myself. Finally, even get to the point where it didn't make me sick to look in the mirror any more." _

_"I turned myself from a villain into a hero..." _

Two sides of one coin, Roy thought absently. If he were a juror, he wondered, which of the two lawyers would he believe more convincing right now? Which would he be likely to believe?

But Roy wasn't a juror.

He was a witness: one of the star witnesses.

_"For personal and professional reasons, I am resigning from the LACoFD as a firefighter/ paramedic..." _Johnny's words. Again. They haunted Roy: every blasted, horrible word.

Roy had been there for all of it.

_"...I want him for murder, Mr. DeSoto. Everything else, as far as I'm concerned, is icing on the cake..." _That wasn't Johnny: that was the so-called FBI agent.

Roy knew what the truth was.

It was up to the lawyers to make sure the men and women who sat in the boxed seats to the side of the room knew it, too. John Gage's life – and possibly Roy's, as well - depended on it.

"The State calls its first witness..."

E!

**March 1975**

"I'm sorry, guys, we did our best. She arrested – and we couldn't revive her."

Looking back, Roy realized, that had been the moment that had changed everything. Doctor Kelly Brackett, delivering what was, unfortunately, routine bad news after he and Johnny delivered a patient to Rampart Hospital, the physician's eyes reflecting both genuine grief and also the necessary dispassion anyone in the medical field developed to remain sane.

Jenny Carpenter, their latest victim, came into the hospital on a gurney. Johnny had accompanied her in the ambulance: Roy had followed in the squad. She had five children and a husband who, throughout her rescue, had waited and watched impassively while the paramedics had stabilized her and taken her to the hospital. Her family – all of them – had followed the ambulance and had gotten the news just before Roy and Johnny did.

It was, under any circumstance, a tragedy. Five young, motherless children and a widower stood huddled at the far end of the hall, away from the base station, but within view, their cries and grief seeping into Roy's soul.

"No," Johnny said quietly, his eyes defying Brackett's words. "No, there was no reason for her to die!"

He'd seemed a bit more agitated than usual, Roy recalled.

He waved his handi-talkie in the air and raised his voice. "She was stabilized! Her vitals were fine when I brought her in!"

When I brought her in...

I... Not "we".

That should have been Roy's first clue. But Roy hadn't been looking for clues or answers or explanations that day. He didn't know he'd have to. He'd been thinking about how he would feel if Joanne died, left him alone with his own children to raise, left his own heart torn open...

"Johnny, sometimes it just happens," Brackett said patiently, his hands thrust in his lab coat pockets, his ever-present stethoscope draped around his neck. The quiet sobbing from the end of the hall echoed in Roy's ears.

"No, not – There was no reason for her to die!"

"Johnny –"

"She should have been fine! She just needed–"

"John, she went hypovolemic and then flatlined. Maybe a valve defect, who knows?"

"Who knows?" The rising volume and pitch in his partner's voice surprised Roy.

He put a hand on Johnny's arm. "Johnny, come on, there's nothing more –"

"I want to know why she's dead, Doc! I want to know why she isn't alive, because she should be!"

The man was furious out of proportion to the situation.

Roy touched his shoulder, trying again to calm him: they were drawing the attention of others in the area, including the victim's family. They didn't need that.

"Johnny, come on." He began to pull his partner from the station, grabbing the supplies he needed to restock their boxes.

But Johnny pulled away and stared angrily, frantically, at Brackett.

"You're going to do an autopsy?"

"If the family requests one," Brackett agreed, holding his own composure, countering Johnny's sudden outburst.

"Well _I_ request one!"

"Johnny, we can't do one just because – "

"Dammit, I was the one who saved her! I brought her in here, and I want to know why she came in here alive and is going out in a hearse!"

"Johnny!"

"John, you guys did a fine job in the field, there was nothing –"

"I want an autopsy!"

It was his final order that pushed Brackett's patience over the edge. He met Johnny's angry glare with an equal one and said, still quietly, "You don't give the orders here, Mr. Gage." His voice warned Roy that this would be a really good time to get his partner out of there. "I'll review the case and talk with her family, and if we deem it worthwhile, we'll do an autopsy. But not because a paramedic wants one done!"

Johnny opened his mouth again, but this time Roy grabbed him more firmly and propelled him down the hall.

"Sorry, Doc," the senior paramedic muttered, as he half-shoved his furious partner along the hallway.

As they closed on Jenny Carpenter's family, he paused and said, "We're real sorry. We did everything we could." He spoke to the husband, couldn't bear to meet the children's eyes.

The man, probably in his mid-forties, had made no pretense of hiding his grief. His tear-streaked face met Roy's eyes, and then he turned and glared at Johnny. John Gage met the glare steadily, silently.

"We'll see about that," he answered. Then he drew his children close with his arms and pulled himself and them away from Roy and Johnny.

Stunned by the man's response, Roy glanced at his partner.

And that, he realized, was something else he should have paid more attention to. The look in Johnny's eyes had mimicked the one in the widower's, but neither had been of anger or grief. They had looked at each other with hatred, pure and unadulterated.

"You care to explain that?" Roy demanded as he stowed the drug box in the bay and slammed the door shut. Johnny got into the squad without answering and frustrated, Roy followed. He put the keys in the ignition.

"You know, that was very unprofessional..."

"Just drop it!" Johnny snapped. He rolled his window down and rested his elbow on the edge, nibbling one of his fingernails.

Roy took a deep breath. He didn't like being embarrassed in front of Brackett: the doctor had an uncanny way of making him (and, he knew, many other paramedics) feel like a moron on the best of days, but having Johnny go off on him had really… _Not made sense_!

He turned on the squad engine and Johnny picked up the mike. "Squad 51 available from Rampart."

"Squad 51, 10-4."

"So, what?" Roy asked, low-keying it for now. He pulled out of the parking lot. "Did you – know her? Or him?"

…_The patient's front door was opened by the oldest child, who just stood there silently as they dragged oxygen, defibrillator, bioscope, and drug and trauma boxes into their living room. _

_It was a fairly expensive, large, ranch house, nicely decorated in the most current style. Inside, the place was clean and orderly, except for four children who stood crying and being held by their father or sitting on the floor sobbing in hysterics. _

_"What happened to Mommy?" _

_"It's alright." Roy soothed the small girl, whose uncontrollable breathing in panicky sobs was threatening to put her into the same condition as her mother. "It's alright, we're here to help your mom." _

_Johnny dropped to one knee at the woman's side and put a hand on her chest. _

_"She's having trouble breathing." He turned on the oxygen and placed a mask over the unconscious woman's face and placed the stethoscope in his ears. "No ralls," Johnny reported. "What's her name?" he called sharply to the man who stood there watching them and holding the smallest child. _

_"Jenny..." _

_Out of the corner of his eye he saw Johnny glance at him quickly, then turn away. "She shouldn't have died, Roy." _

_"Rampart, the patient is stabilized and breathing on her own. Blood pressure is 80/55. We are transporting now. ETA is about fifteen minutes. _

_"10-4, 51." _

"You heard Brackett, sometimes–"

"Not this time! She was stable, Roy! All her vitals were stable, her IV was in, she had almost regained consciousness – "

"What, then?" He turned at the intersection and caught a look at Johnny's profile. His jaw was clenching, the veins on his neck stood out, he was practically ready to throw something. "You think someone screwed up at Rampart? Or do you think we screwed up in the field?"

Johnny glared out the front of the squad car for a few breaths, then turned to stare out the side window.

"What? You think she was murdered or something?" Roy pressed. His partner was acting very strangely.

"I'm just saying," John repeated, very slowly, as if he were explaining this to a child, "that she shouldn't – have – died!" He pounded the window ledge with each final word, and Roy winced.

"Alright, look, we'll call over there later this afternoon, okay" Roy offered. "See if they've made any decision about following up on it." They were nearly at the station.

"No." John shook his head. "If they do an autopsy, they do an autopsy. If they don't, they don't. You don't need Brackett on your case, too."

He forced a smile as they pulled up to the firehouse and Roy turned the squad around to back it in. He parked, waited until the engine was off, then put a hand on Johnny's arm and held him for just a minute before they got out.

"You don't think you did something wrong out there, do you?"

Johnny's eyes drifted out of focus for a second, and then he shrugged and pulled himself free. "Naw." He seemed to have slipped off the fury very quickly, Roy thought. Too quickly.

"I'm gonna go wash up," he said, heading toward the latrine. Roy watched him go, a little worried. Then he smelled Chet's newly-perfected pizzas and decided to file the episode under job stress.

E!

Three days on, three days off. The innovative, unforgiving rotation schedule, an experiment some bureaucrat at Headquarters had plotted, put them together for the next forty-eight hours, most of which passed without incident.

In the middle of the night, Roy got up to use the head and noticed Johnny's bunk was empty. There was no sound from the latrine, but a sliver of light shone under the door to the engine bay. After taking care of his business, he passed quietly through the sleeping men in the dorm, through the deserted bay, and cracked open the door to the break room just a bit.

Johnny was on the phone, leaning against the wall, running his fingers through his hair.

"Look, I don't care, there was–" He was cut off by whomever he was speaking to and he sighed heavily, just listening for several seconds. He bent one leg back and planted his stockinged foot against the wall behind him for support.

"No, you listen! I tried!" His voice was agitated, growing louder, and he fought to pull it back down to a whisper. "I can't, I told you already! – Then _you_ tell them–" He shifted his position, turned and saw Roy.

For a second, Johnny was startled by the uninvited audience, and there was a flash of something almost like panic in his eyes.

Roy grinned at him and walked purposefully through the kitchen and poured himself a glass of water. Whatever else his partner had to say was lost in the background noise Roy provided.

When he heard the phone jangle on the wall, he turned and grinned again, still feeling ashamed that he had stood and listened for as long as he had.

"Didn't mean to eavesdrop," he apologized lamely, gulping water. "I just got up and…" he gestured with his glass to finish his pathetic excuse.

"Yeah, no problem." Johnny headed back to the dorms.

"Girl trouble?" Roy asked carefully. He glanced at the clock on the wall and tried to imagine calling a woman at this hour.

"Uh, yeah." Johnny was a pathetic liar. His basic decency made that a skill he had never mastered – or tried to, Roy had always thought. There was something almost gullible about his partner.

Johnny ran his fingers through his hair and gave a weak smile. "Night."

"Night." Roy finished his water and left the glass in the sink.

The following day, the second day of their shift, was excruciatingly quiet. The county was drenched with a long drizzle that lasted most of the day. Captain Stanley, facing a mountain of paperwork, decided to update the personnel files and passed that work on to each of his men, the word "delegation" currently one of his favorites.

"Forms!" Chet muttered disgustedly, looking over the records that needed to be updated annually. "Why don't they just shoot us and put us out of our misery?" They sat around the table, listening the light patter of rain, the endlessly monotonous questions in front of them. Roy had few changes to make to his form, since he and Joanne hadn't had any children born in the past twelve months, and neither his birthday nor his age had changed. He finished quickly and rose to put his papers back in the Captain's desk when the phone rang.

"I got it." He took his form with him, watched Johnny finish his own, and picked up the phone. "Station 51."

"Roy? It's Kelly Brackett."

"Oh, hi, Doc."

"Listen, that woman you brought in yesterday, Carpenter?"

"Yeah." Johnny started past him but Roy put his hand out and stopped him from leaving when he heard Carpenter's name.

"Her husband called this morning. Wants an autopsy. Thought Gage might like to know he got his wish."

"Thanks, I'll tell him." Johnny queried him with his eyes.

"If we find anything, I'll let you know."

"Thanks, Doc."

He hung up. "They're gonna do an autopsy on Jenny Carpenter." If Roy had known what to look for then, he would have seen it. But he was still operating on the assumption that all was normal.

"Good," John said and left, heading for the Captain's office with his papers.

"Who's Jenny Carpenter?" Marco asked.

"Run we had yesterday morning," Roy reminded them. "The one who didn't make it."

"Oh, right, with all those kids?"

Roy nodded.

"Why're they doing an autopsy? I thought she went into shock ..."

"Her husband requested it." He shrugged and followed Johnny into the office to deposit his forms. Johnny had left, was working in the bay on the drug box, and the Captain was fixing lunch, so the room was empty. And Johnny's form, listing relevant statistics and the raw data of his life, stared up at Roy from the In Box. His gaze flicked over the top form. There was something wrong about it.

A name, a date? An address? He couldn't figure out what, though, and without deliberately checking the old forms beneath the new one, he couldn't confirm the little tickle at the back of his brain.

There was something that just wasn't right, as if his partner had made a mistake somewhere.

With the quiet swoosh of rain in the background, he laid his papers down, tempted for just a second to check his subliminal impression.

Then Klaxons blared and Roy left the drudgery of bureaucracy behind as he prepared to answer a call for help.

It was a simple, if soggy, rescue, Roy remembered. A teenager had sped through an intersection, swerved to avoid the car that had right-of-way, and ended up bruised and battered. His car fared worse than he did, and from his reaction as Roy talked to him in the ambulance on the way to Rampart, he had a feeling the boy's parents weren't going to be lenient with the kid.

He stopped at the base station to check out supplies, greeted Dixie McCall, and left. Johnny had stayed in the ambulance lot in the squad car, just waiting. He'd moved out of the driver's seat and Roy climbed in.

"Kid was lucky," Roy muttered.

"Yeah," Johnny agreed. "Probably won't feel like it when his folks get here, though." He almost chuckled, then something passed over his face, a shadow from within, and he swallowed and grabbed the mike. "Squad 51 available."

The clues were stacking up, but Roy hadn't realized it was his task to collect and sort them; or to make sure, weeks later, that he had them at his disposal to save another life.

The third day of their shift brought the sun back to the county, and the guys set up a volleyball net in the rear parking lot and played off and on as the shift wore down quietly. The engine had three day calls and the squad responded to only four. Captain Stanley made mincemeat of the accumulated paperwork in his office.

The rest of the team made the station, engine, and squad shine like new.

"Hey, Johnny!" the Captain called once, while both paramedics were polishing their vehicle. Johnny looked up as the Captain walked out of his office, scowling at the paper in his hand. From the color, Roy could see that it was the personnel form. "Look, I know we're like family here," the man started, humor in his eyes, "but I think Headquarters needs a little more than just `Mom' under `Next of Kin'."

Roy chuckled as John took the paper and looked it over.

Chet and Marco, too, waited for a response.

"That's not `mom'," Johnny said quietly, "It's `none'."

The phone rang. Johnny glanced at his watch and yelled, "I got it!" as if he'd been waiting for a call. Roy watched him disappear behind the wall into the break room and saw Captain Stanley watch him vanish.

"What is it?" Roy asked, moving closer and listening with half an ear to the conversation on the other side of the room.

"Well, Johnny had his dad listed on the form last year," the Captain said, still looking after the paramedic. "Just wondered why he changed it." He looked at Roy. "He mention anything about his dad dying or anything this past year?"

Roy shook his head. "Nope." But Johnny rarely talked about his family, and upon reflection Roy realized that, had he been pressed, he wasn't sure he could even name anyone in Johnny's immediate family.

But it was Johnny's voice on the other side of the wall, through a door that kept normal conversations private, that had sucked the Captain's attention and Roy's.

"No! That's a load of – No, listen! I never said –"

Johnny's voice was loud enough now that even Chet and Marco were distracted by it.

"Then get down there now and start! – No way, man, he's not doing that again!"

"Who's he talkin' to?" Chet whispered, walking closer to Roy for a better seat in the wings.

"Dunno." Roy grabbed his polishing cloth and started back to work, hoping the others would follow suit. But the angry voice kept pulling their attention back.

"Look, I can't… No! Start now! Now!" And then there was a quiet string of expletives Roy had never heard Johnny use before and he slammed the phone onto the cradle.

Quickly, the rest of the team scrambled back to their duties. The Captain waited for Johnny to return, but when he took a look at the paramedic's face, he apparently changed his mind about pursuing the oddity on Johnny's personnel form.

Johnny grabbed his cloth and began vigorously rubbing the squad. After a minute, Chet said, "So, Gage, that your new pickup line you were practicing?"

Pulled from his own thoughts, the dark-haired man looked up and realized that everyone was waiting for an explanation of some form for the loud display. He took a deep breath.

"Guess none of you ever had to argue with a credit card company over a bill!"

It was a pathetic answer, Roy thought, but he put a little more muscle into his work and said, "Actually, Joanne and I had a bill a few months ago that we knew had to be wrong. We wrote them a letter and sent–"

"Squad 51! See the man at the corner of 21st and Penrose. Possible heart attack. Repeat: 21st and Penrose. Cross Street: Buena Vista. Time out: 1410."

"Squad 51, KMG-365." Hank Stanley handed off the paper to Johnny as he and Roy quickly dumped the rags and scrambled into their vehicle, helmets on. Johnny began scribbling the call log as Roy hit the lights and sirens, pulled out of the bay and turned right into the flow of traffic.

"Thanks," Johnny said, still writing the information from the run on the small pad on the dashboard, not looking at his partner.

Roy understood. "Sure." The sirens cleared their path. "That the same person you were yelling at the other night?"

For a moment, he thought Johnny had forgotten the late night incident. But the long silence turned too long, and when he glanced at the younger man Roy could see him trying to come up with a plausible explanation.

"Look, if it's none of my business..."

"Here it is! 21st and Penrose." Johnny pointed to a small bookstore at the corner they'd been told to go to. "Let's go."

Once again, Johnny elected to follow the ambulance in the squad car, and didn't come into the hospital himself. Roy delivered their victim and refilled supplies again: they were low on Ringer's and D5W, so he requisitioned them from the nurse at the base station and waited while she went to get enough to keep her own supply stocked as well.

That's when Alex Carpenter showed up, coming from the main entrance. He had not brought the children with him, and for a moment, as he looked at Roy, it seemed as if he didn't remember him. Then as he got closer, he did.

"Mr. Carpenter," Roy said, smiling and holding out his hand. "I'm Roy DeSoto. I was one of the paramedics–"

"I know," Carpenter said. He didn't take the offered hand. "Is Doctor Brackett here? He said he had the autopsy results for me."

"Uh, I haven't seen him..." Roy glanced around. Dr. Early had taken his latest patient into the treatment room. Neither Brackett nor Dixie seemed to be on duty. "His office is right down here, though," he said, and led the man in the right direction.

The door to the office opened and both Brackett and Dixie stepped out, their faces grim. Dixie smiled tightly when she saw Roy, and Brackett greeted Carpenter.

"I've been expecting you, Mr. Carpenter. There are a few things I thought you might want to know."

"Roy," said Dixie, "you got a minute?"

A sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach told Roy that even if he didn't, he'd better find one.

Dixie pulled him over to the chairs next to the base station, a step down in tension for Roy: had she taken him to the lounge, he'd have been more worried.

"What do you know about this Carpenter guy?" the blonde nurse asked, her voice very low and serious.

Roy shrugged and shook his head. "Nothing, really. We got the call to respond to a woman in distress at his house. Irregular heart beat and trouble breathing." He repeated details he knew Dixie was already familiar with: she had worked the base station on that run. "When we got there, it was a mad house. The kids were crying because they were scared: except the oldest one, he was just standing out of the way, waiting for help, I guess. Her husband was there, he said she'd lost consciousness after he made the call and he couldn't revive her. We checked her airway, got her started on oxygen, got her history and vitals..."

"And Johnny rode the ambulance in with her," Dixie interrupted.

"Yeah. Why, was there something in the autopsy?"

Dixie had looked grim before, but this time she looked more worried and puzzled. "I don't know what to tell you, Roy," she said. Then she met his eyes and said, "I'm not sure what I'm allowed to tell you."

_Why hadn't Johnny come in yet? Why was he just sitting in the squad? _It wasn't like him to miss the opportunity to socialize, try picking up a nurse...

"What's going on, Dix?"

Dixie sighed. "Keep this to yourself for now, okay?" Roy nodded. "Her husband thinks Johnny botched the rescue. And someone from a government agency's been up here to talk to Kelly about her. And the autopsy – wasn't as clean as we would have liked."

"The government?" Roy repeated, just a bit loudly. He cleared his throat and smiled with disbelief. "What, did she work for the CIA or something?"

Dixie hefted her shoulders and shook her head. "Beats me. But there's a lot of interest in her death and…" She paused and lifted one eyebrow. "Maybe it's just woman's intuition, but did you get the sense that Johnny knows these people? On the rescue, I mean, was there any sign that they'd met before?"

Roy remembered, now, that he'd asked Johnny the same question after they'd left the hospital two days ago. Johnny had never really answered it.

_Johnny dropped to one knee at the woman's side and put a hand on her chest. _

_"What's her name?" _

_"Jenny." _

_He peeled back her eyelids and flashed his pen light in them. "Jenny! Jenny, can you hear me? Jenny?" _

_There was no response... _

"No, there was no sign on the rescue, we just went in and did our jobs..."

"Well, my woman's intuition kicked in here," Dixie clarified. "Right at the end, when Johnny started demanding an autopsy and you finally got him to calm down and leave."

"Yeah, I saw it," he admitted. "But I think Johnny would've said something by now if he knew them. He's not real good at hiding things, you know?"

Dixie gave him a knowing look. "No, he just hides," she said, glancing around the base station area pointedly.

"He's just – waiting in the squad." Roy cleared his throat, stood and went to the station to retrieve his IV solutions from the nurse. "What you said about the autopsy..?"

"Keep it to yourself for now," Dixie said. "I may have said too much. And – keep an eye on your partner, okay? This'll probably all blow over, but if it doesn't..."

"Yeah." He patted her arm affectionately as he left, walking with his arms bundled around the IV packages.

In the past two days, Roy realized, he'd had to steer Johnny away from provoking a confrontation with Brackett, steer clear of two very strange and heated phone conversations, and now, apparently, steer himself and his partner through the possibility of a medical board of inquiry.

It was a lot of steering to do, given how steady Johnny usually was; not to mention that he was, without question, one of the finest paramedics in the county, if not the state.

Roy sighed and packed the IVs into the front seat next to him, and half-glanced at his partner.

"Any problems?" Johnny asked, almost disinterested.

"Not really."

"Squad 51 available," Gage reported into dispatch, and waited for the acknowledgement before he hung up.

"You know, I asked you a couple days ago if you knew Carpenter and his wife?" Roy reminded him as he pulled out.

"Hmm."

"He came in while I was in there."

"Collecting her body?"

Roy risked another glance at his partner: for a man who had been willing to run afoul of Brackett two days ago to get an answer to why the young woman had died, he was surprisingly detached now. Generally, when Johnny cared that deeply about an issue, he didn't let go of it easily.

"Getting the autopsy report. Brackett said he wanted to talk to him about it." That much he'd gotten without a word from Dixie, so he didn't feel he was speaking out of turn. But Johnny just grunted another, "Hmm," in response. He stared out his window and gnawed his thumbnail.

"You mind filling me in, here? There's something going on that you're not telling me about."

"What, with that woman?" Johnny asked casually.

"_That woman?_"

And that was when Roy had realized that whatever it was, it was more serious than he'd picked up on until that moment. Johnny never referred to their patients, living or dead, as impersonally as "that woman". It was part of what made him so good at his job, the fact that each person they rescued had a name, sometimes a job, friends, family; and between caring for the patient at the scene, taking them to the hospital, filling out the paperwork, and entering their logs, it was usually a long time before they forgot the names and faces of their rescues. Some they never forgot.

But never had he heard Johnny distance himself from a case with such callousness.

" `That woman' was Jenny Carpenter two days ago."

Johnny glanced in his direction, as if realizing he'd misspoken. "Yeah, I know, sorry. Well, I don't know what's going on with the autopsy. Did Brackett tell you what they found?"

"No." They were close to the station and Roy realized that, once again, Johnny had failed to answer his first question. It was either a very skillful deflection, or simply an oversight.

One more shot, Roy thought.

"So, had you met them before?"

Johnny shrugged. "I didn't know any Carpenters until two days ago," he answered. And then he propped his elbow on the open windowsill and stared out and away from his partner.

E!

"Gage! Phone!" Lopez handed the instrument over to Johnny, who leapt from the chair in the break room to answer it. He looked like a lifeline had just been passed to him, Roy thought.

"Thanks. This is John Gage."

It was the mid-afternoon slump period, and just about everyone was either in the kitchen, grabbing a snack, reading the paper, or sitting in the break room. Lopez was taking stock of the refrigerator in preparation for dinner, and Chet was playing a game of poker with Mike and the Captain, with a growing pot of M&Ms for the prize.

"Yeah, I know," John said into the phone. No one, Roy knew, trying to concentrate on the paper, was actively eavesdropping on his partner. But it wasn't easy not to, either, in the quiet room. "No." The monosyllabic half of John's conversation wasn't exceptionally revealing. "No!" he repeated again, a bit more forcefully. Then he glanced at the men around him and pulled the phone through the door into the bay to continue his conversation more privately.

Even though Roy couldn't hear the words, he could hear the tone: Johnny's growing agitation was unmistakable. When he finally came back and hung up the phone, he looked pale.

"Everything alright, Gage?" The Captain asked, glancing up from his hand.

"Oh. Yeah, Cap. Thanks." He came back to the break room, slid into the chair he'd vacated, and picked up a magazine, leafing through it, as if trying to find something to interest him. Or distract him.

Without consciously realizing it, Roy had picked up the obituary page of the newspaper, and started looking through it. He found the name CARPENTER, JENNY quickly, and glanced over the details.

"Here's the obit on Jenny," he said absently, to anyone who might care to hear. John glanced up, then looked back at the magazine with renewed interest. "`Jenny Carpenter, 27, died suddenly at Rampart General Hospital on Tuesday,'" Roy read aloud. "`She is survived by her husband, Alex, and five children: John, 10, Alex, Jr., 8, Sarah and Lisa, 6, and Michael, 5.' – That's odd."

"What?" Johnny asked.

"That their _first_ son isn't Alex Junior."

"You know," Chet volunteered from behind him, "John is the second most common name in the country."

"That so?" Johnny asked. "What's the first?"

"Lee."

"So someone named John Lee would fade into the crowd?" Johnny asked, actually smiling with the question.

"Yeah, I guess."

"Didn't he look a bit different from the other kids to you?" Roy asked Johnny, not willing to be pulled away from the topic this time.

Johnny shrugged and turned the pages of the magazine, more slowly, as if he were actually reading something. "Didn't notice."

"He looked a lot like his mother. The others looked like their dad, but the oldest one – "

"Maybe they have different fathers?" Lopez suggested.

"Yeah, could be. That'd explain why the second kid got the Junior title. I'll see your three green M&Ms and raise you two," Chet said, sounding pleased with himself.

Roy glanced at the rest of the obit. The funeral would be tomorrow at the Congregational church not too far from Roy's house. Two o'clock.

He considered going. He considered whether Johnny would go.

His partner stayed deeply involved in his magazine and didn't look up, even when he had to have realized Roy was staring at him, waiting for eye contact.

The game continued at the table behind him. Chet won, to no one's surprise.

Roy finally gave up his efforts to force Johnny to look at him and put the paper on the sofa next to him. He got up, refilled his coffee, and spent a few minutes discussing dinner with Lopez.

"I should have stopped earlier for some green peppers," Lopez moaned, trying to make do with what they had in stock.

"Well, if we get another run before dinner, we can stop at a store on the way back," Roy suggested. It was always risky trying to get groceries during the shift, but some days it worked out.

Johnny continued to read through the magazine he'd picked up, trying to stay in his seat. But eventually, some internal pressure built up and he took a heavy breath and stood. He passed the couch, glanced at the paper, then headed out of the room, helping himself to a handful of Chet's winnings on his way.

"Hey!" Chet objected.

"You'll win `em back," Johnny chuckled, and stuffed half the candies in his mouth as he walked out of the break room.

"Yeah, from you!"

"Don't count on it."

Roy smiled and followed his partner, taking a quick look at Chet's hand on the way out: Johnny was right. He'd definitely win back the winnings John had eaten.

His detour to check the poker hand kept him far enough back from Johnny not to be noticed. In retrospect, he decided, that was probably fortunate. The younger man tossed the rest of the M&Ms into the trash can near the door on the way through the engine bay, then slammed the door open angrily and entered the locker room.

His entire demeanor had changed in less than three seconds, and Roy took a deep breath, treading more lightly.

It occurred to Roy that his own actions – following Johnny like a shadow – were abnormal. Then it occurred to him that Johnny's were even more so.

He stood in the bay and glanced through the door window.

Johnny had slumped on the bench in front of his locker, his head between his hands, rubbing the heels of his hands hard into his eyes. After nearly a minute, he turned, flipped one leg over the bench, and opened his locker. He pulled something from inside it and sat that way, his back to the door, for another two minutes. After that, Roy couldn't hold himself back any longer.

"Hey." _Keep it light_, he told himself. _Don't corner him_.

Johnny turned as he came into the locker room, and quickly shoved whatever he'd had back inside. He looked at Roy warily and sighed, not bothering to respond to the greeting.

"Listen," Roy said, sitting on the bench next to him, "I thought maybe – maybe I'd go to the funeral, you know. Just to see how her family's doing."

Johnny shrugged and stood up, locking his personal belongings away.

"Johnny, what happened in the ambulance?"

"What?"

"I just – I keep thinking back to how anxious you were to find out why she died, you know? And now – well, it's like you don't even care that we lost a patient."

"We didn't lose her, Roy. She died after I got her to the hospital, okay? Everything I did was by the book. So just drop it."

"Wish I could," Roy muttered, and sipped his coffee. It was fresh and hot, and a real treat.

Johnny started for the dormitory and Roy stood to follow him. Johnny turned, suddenly angry, and put his hands on his hips. "What's your problem, man?"

"My problem," Roy began uncomfortably, "is you."

"Hey, I don't have a problem. We lost a patient. She's dead. Now maybe I overreacted – a little – at the hospital, okay? I'm sorry. But you're always telling me to let go of things. So..."

"It's not that simple."

"Why not?"

The senior paramedic hated this: he hated getting Johnny angry, hated confrontations. He hated the stomach-clenching feeling he'd been getting off and on for the last two and a half days. He hated the feeling that a disaster was lurking right around the corner, and he wasn't going to be able to stop it.

"Because you won't give me a straight answer to anything I ask you. Because you're making weird phone calls in the middle of the night and getting weird ones in the middle of the day. Because you look like you're going to jump out of your skin every time I bring up the subject."

Johnny closed his eyes, then his mouth, and swallowed hard several times.

"And," Roy continued, very quietly, "because I know you. We've been working together a long time, Junior. You goof off a lot and you brag to the nurses. And you can't tell a good lie."

His partner opened his eyes and stared at him. For a few seconds, Roy wasn't sure if Johnny was going to belt him or just walk off. He did neither.

"Look, just – leave it alone."

"Not if it won't leave you alone."

Johnny shut his eyes again and took another deep breath. "Look, I'm sorry if I haven't been straight with you, okay? There's just nothing to talk about."

He turned then and started back to the dormitory. Again, Roy followed. This time they made it into the sleeping quarters before John turned back and glared at him.

Roy spoke first, preempting the imminent tirade he could see coming. "Look, I think you know this Carpenter guy, and I think he's got it in for you. He's going to try to make trouble for you, Johnny, and if he makes trouble for you, he makes trouble for me. I don't want to sound selfish, but if we're going to end up facing a board of inquiry over this, I'd like to know why."

Johnny considered the request for a long moment. Then the anger left his face. The fight went out of him. "I'm sorry, Roy. I've told you everything I can."

It was a surrender, of sorts. But not the one Roy had hoped for. "Johnny – "

"I've told you everything I can!" he repeated. His voice was gaining strength, but not anger. He was beginning to sound panicked. Cornered. Exactly what Roy had not wanted.

"Okay." He turned to go, hoping that maybe, if he backed off, Johnny would volunteer something, anything. But he didn't.

When dinner was ready, two hours later, Chet found him in the dorms, sitting on his bunk, staring blankly at the walls. He came and ate with the rest of the men, but his mind was somewhere else.

And Roy knew he didn't have a chance at finding out where.

E!

The middle of the night brought another late-night call.

Roy woke up without knowing why, until he saw Johnny's dark form retreating from the room. Some small sound his partner made must have woken him. That, or instinct working overtime.

Hating himself, and angry at Johnny as well, he followed at a distance, and waited just on the other side of the break room, engaged in the despicable activity of deliberate eavesdropping. And desperate enough to simply stand and listen.

"It's me," Johnny began. The caller was expecting the middle-of-the-night interruption. After a pause, Roy heard his partner's tired sigh. "I know. – No, I can't. – I – have something else I've gotta do."

Roy waited, trying to make sense out of what he heard.

"Look, I said I can't – No!" Johnny's voice went from exhaustion to pleading. "Please, I told you I – " he begged. Then there was a long silence. "Alright, alright. – Yes." And the tone went back down. "Fine. – Yes, I understand." He clipped off that last sentence with barely-controlled anger.

Roy was still listening when the Klaxons blared.

"Engine 51, Engine 36! Brush fire. Pecos Canyon..."

"I gotta go," John said rapidly, and hung up the phone.

Roy was trapped. The lights were on. The men in the dorm had jumped at the sound of the alarm, pushing their legs into their turnout gear. Johnny, trying to make it back to the dorm without being detected, came face-to-face with Roy, whose position right behind the door couldn't be misinterpreted.

The look in Johnny's eyes as he realized what had happened was one of the more frightening things Roy had faced in his life. But amidst the bustling, frenetic activity in the room as the rest of the crew got dressed to put out a fire, Roy figured the look would be lost on everyone else.

He desperately hoped it was.

"Hey, Roy, Johnny, what are you guys doing up?" Marco asked as he passed them. The Captain, too, shot them a quick, questioning look, but they were all moving too quickly to wait for an answer.

Which was good, because Roy wasn't able to think of one, and Johnny wasn't even breathing, much less paying attention to anything now except the invasion of privacy Roy had perpetrated.

In seconds, the engine was pulling out of the station and Roy stood alone and defenseless.

Without a word, without blinking or even seeming to breathe, Johnny passed him and went back to his bunk. He laid down, flicked off the lights, and threw his arm over his eyes.

Heart pounding and mouth now dry from guilt and anxiety and a hundred other things he couldn't begin to decipher, Roy sat on the edge of his own bunk, next to Johnny, and waited in the darkness.

"Go to sleep," Johnny finally said, obviously aware of his partner's stare, even without looking.

"Can't."

Johnny swallowed very loudly, and if there had been enough light, Roy thought, he might have actually seen him gulp, as if he were trying not to scream.

"Please tell me that wasn't Carpenter."

"It wasn't Carpenter."

"You're getting better, Junior," Roy said sadly. "That one almost sounded like the truth."

Johnny's chest heaved soundlessly. "Drop it."

"Johnny, I'm your friend. Least, I thought I was. If you're in some kind of trouble, let me help!"

"I'm not in any trouble," he said. He sounded defeated again. Tired and defeated. "And you are my friend, but – there are some things – I just can't talk about."

Roy considered his next words carefully. "Whoever that was, he sure knew how to scare you."

There was a long silence. Then, very firmly, Johnny said, "Good night, Roy."

As he lay in the darkness waiting for dawn, Roy realized that what concerned him more than anything else right now was the fact that, despite Johnny's fury at having been spied on by his best friend, he hadn't even brought it up. He'd let it go, as if he he'd already fought as much as he could fight.

As if he didn't have the strength left to fight. Or as if he had the strength for only one fight at a time, and it wasn't going to be with Roy.

It was with the person he called, alone in the darkness in the dead of night.

The engine company returned an hour later. The men dragged themselves back to bed as quietly as they could, assuming their two lucky mates were sleeping. But Roy listened with his eyes open, staring at the ceiling, knowing that sleep was impossible. And in the bunk next to him, when everyone else's breathing had calmed back to the rhythms of sleep, and Chet's quiet snoring filled the room, Roy heard sounds he knew he shouldn't have heard.

And something inside him broke apart listening to Johnny cry in the night.

E!

Johnny was in and out of the latrine and dressed before the rest of the guys were even up. Roy had waited with his eyes shut, not willing to interfere with his partner's need to compose himself before facing the rest of them.

He got up later, with the others, walked through his morning routine and listened to the muted grumbles as they described their late-night interruption. It was a minor fire: most of the time they'd been gone had been spent traveling to and from the scene, at the farthest edge of their jurisdiction.

Marco, Chet, and Mike left, almost on cue, and the Captain, who had just finished brushing his teeth, stood near the mirror next to Roy, who was shaving.

"By the way," the Captain said, "what was that scene all about when we were leaving?"

It would have been nice to have had Johnny's gift for deflecting a question, Roy thought, but he knew he didn't have that. On top of a mostly-sleepless night and his own confusion and worry, he didn't have much else, either.

"Oh, I just, uh, had to go get a drink of water, and I guess I surprised Johnny on the way." He shrugged. The Captain came closer to him and lowered his voice.

"Roy, I know we were all half-asleep. But even Stoker was laying odds on the chances of finding you still alive when we got back."

Roy winced and looked down as he rinsed his razor. "It was nothing, Cap, just – a little misunderstanding."

"Uh-huh. So was World War I. Look, if you two are having some kind of personal problem..."

"No, it's nothing like that, Cap."

"Okay." The man sighed, the sigh that meant he was about to launch into his next approach. "You two have been on edge all shift. If it's not personal, then it must be professional, right?"

Roy finished his task and grabbed a towel to wipe his face off. "I guess we're both upset about that girl, Jenny?" The truth, Roy had found, was always best. Well, almost always. "It's got Johnny on edge, and I guess – I'm just worried about him." He smiled half-heartedly at the Captain and shrugged. "Couple days off, we'll both feel better."

"Mmhmm." Translation: _And I've got ocean-front property in Nevada!_ "Well, if you want to talk or if you think there's something I can do, let me know."

"I will, Cap, thanks."

"Okay. Enjoy your days off."

Roy nodded and waited until the Captain had gone before he sighed with relief. The first arrivals to relieve them had come in, and Marco and Chet had left by the time Roy got to the kitchen.

"You guys are early," he remarked, stifling a yawn and heading for the coffee pot. It was half empty already.

"Oh, we were bored," Brad Singer said, looking thoroughly refreshed from his own days off.

"Yeah, just can't wait to get back into that engine and feel grit and sweat and soot all over us," added Mark Dempsey. The two were cradling their coffee at the table and the Captain had made himself some toast and grabbed a cup of coffee for himself.

Johnny sat in the break room, reading through the paper.

Roy decided against joining him, though that would have been normal. Instead, he sat with the others at the table, watching the clock, chatting about the previous shift, even casually mentioning Jenny Carpenter. If Johnny were listening, he gave no indication.

When their replacements arrived, Johnny left as quickly as possible after going over the checklists of drugs and supplies and the squad log.

"Looks like you might need an oil change this shift," Roy commented, realizing he and Johnny should probably have taken care of that yesterday when things were quiet.

"Will do."

Johnny wouldn't meet his eyes, didn't speak to him, barely acknowledged his presence. Roy began to feel the impact of his actions last night, more than he had at the time. Like being in a vehicle accident, he thought, when you don't realize how much everything hurts until the adrenaline wears off the next day.

When Johnny made his escape, heading for his locker to get his keys and personal belongings, Roy excused himself and followed.

"Listen," he said boldly, as Johnny put his wallet in his pants and grabbed his keys and jacket, "I thought I might grill some steaks tonight. Wanna come over and have dinner?"

Johnny didn't quite look at him. He produced the polite flash of a smile and said, "Thanks, but I'm busy." He walked past him, out the door to the engine bay, and Roy grabbed his keys and slammed his locker in frustration.

In the parking lot, as Johnny unlocked the door to the Land Rover, Roy gave it one more shot, not liking the idea of spending the next three days without a resolution.

"Johnny, look, I'm sorry about ..." Boy, this was hard. It was harder when Johnny finally looked at him. His reddened eyes were heated with anger and he waited silently, the same terrifying look on his face that Roy had seen hours before. "I'm sorry," he repeated stupidly.

"See you Monday," Johnny said after a few seconds. He got into his car, put on his sunglasses, and backed out of the lot.

E!

"You ever have one of those gut feelings?" Roy had spent the last two hours trying to explain to Joanne what was wrong: the way it came out made him sound paranoid and delusional, and he realized he was failing miserably as a communicator on all fronts.

"All the time," Joanne said, wiping the sink down as she finished cleaning up from lunch. "We call it women's intuition when it doesn't have a lot of testosterone attached."

Roy chuckled. "Well, then that's all I guess I can chock this up to."

"I don't think so." She had finished her own clean-up detail – which Roy knew better than to interfere with by offering to help – and came to join him at the table. "How often in the past few years has Johnny gotten up in the middle of the night to make phone calls?"

"I don't know, maybe I always slept through it before."

"How often has he repeatedly refused to answer a simple question?" she continued. Hearing her piece it together for him, it was actually beginning to make sense again. Roy's concern about being admitted to the psych ward diminished.

"He hasn't."

"And how often has he demanded an autopsy for someone you've lost on a rescue?"

"Never."

Joanne shrugged and patted her husband's arm. "See? All you needed was a clear-thinking, logical woman to put things in their proper perspective. You get rid of all the `jumpy, on-edge, irritable' subjective terminology and focus on facts, and it's pretty clear your boy's in trouble." She smiled sweetly, got up and grabbed herself a cup of coffee. "So, are you going to the funeral or not? You'd better get showered and changed if you are."

"You think I should?" It was the reason he'd dragged her through his excruciatingly muddled thoughts to begin with: coming home after three days on duty and announcing that you were going to a funeral wasn't something that would sit well with a lot of wives.

"I think you'd be stupid not to. Johnny's sure going to be there."

And Joanne, as usual, was right. As Roy pulled into the First Congregational Church's parking lot, he spotted Johnny's Land Rover almost immediately. The church was small and so was parking lot. He took one of three empty spots, got out, buttoned his suit jacket, and went around the front of the church.

There was nothing like the smell of funeral flowers. They cloyed at the nostrils and penetrated the lungs with a sickly scent that tried to mask the odor of death. The flowers around Jenny Carpenter's casket were minimal, but enough to fill the air. The moment he walked in, Roy spotted Johnny, and it was less the fact that he was there (as Joanne had predicted, and Roy's gut had told him) but _where_ he was in the church that made Roy's stomach churn with nausea.

John Gage, who had presumably met the dead woman only hours before her demise, sat in the front pew, the family pew, next to her husband. Beside Alex Carpenter were the children, the smallest one nestled against him, the eldest at the far end, sitting alone, separated just a bit from his siblings. As Roy entered the church and accepted a funeral program from one of the ushers, he saw the smallest boy climb onto his father's lap, and Johnny turned to the child for an instant.

Johnny didn't see his partner, and Roy was glad he'd slipped in just as the service began. He took a seat at the back of the congregation, near the door, so he could leave quickly, as soon as the casket was carried out.

The service was mercifully brief. The minister made a few generic remarks about eternal life, motherhood, and dying young. Obviously, he hadn't known Jenny Carpenter any better than Roy had. When the program indicated it was nearly time for the service to end, he stood with the rest of the small group of mourners, and waited as the pall-bearers stepped forward to carry the casket out to the waiting hearse.

Predictably, Alex Carpenter took the front right position. Unpredictably, Johnny took the left. There was no missing the expression on his face as he walked down the aisle, passing within inches of Roy, his shoulder bearing the burden of Jenny Carpenter's death, his soul bearing much more. He averted his eyes, refused to look at Roy or anyone. He was pale and looked as if he were going to be sick at any moment. Roy looked down, closed his eyes, and wished he had a prayer handy that he could say for his friend.

He hung back, waiting until the end of the hymn and for the last of Jenny's friends and acquaintances to leave before he left the church. The hearse sat out front, and nearby was the Carpenters' tan Ford, Alex standing outside to shake the hands of those who weren't going on to the cemetery.

Roy walked around to the back parking lot. The windows of the Land Rover were down and Johnny hadn't turned on his engine yet. He stared out the windshield as if he were in a trance. Roy came up to the passenger side and leaned in.

"Guess you'll be going to the cemetery," he said. Johnny didn't face him, didn't seem surprised by his presence. As if his partner had been waiting for him, Roy thought, but that again was just a gut feeling.

"Yes."

"Mind if I hitch a ride over with you?"

"Yes." More firmly.

"Okay." Roy rolled the program between his hands into a tube. "Guess I'll see you over there then."

"Don't."

"What?"

Johnny turned to him and said, "Don't go to the cemetery, Roy. Please."

Johnny's face was red, his eyes were red, there were tears on his cheeks, and he didn't seem to care. Roy fought hard not to yank his partner from the car and demand to know what was going on!

"Please, Roy, don't – go – to the cemetery." He gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles white with pressure. He was shaking. He shut his eyes. "Please," he whispered again.

"Sure," Roy said. "Sure, I got errands..." He didn't bother to continue. It was a stupid need to fill silence. He reached into the car and put a hand on Johnny's arm. "Take care of yourself, Junior."

Johnny didn't respond.

Roy left him, waiting from a distance, until he saw the tension go out of his friend and the trembling in his arms stop.

When Roy moved away, Johnny started the engine.

Roy went back to the front of the church and found Alex Carpenter ushering the twin girls, both of whom had been crying throughout the service, into the back of his Ford. The last of the well-wishers were either in their cars, waiting to join the cortege, or had left.

"Mr. Carpenter," Roy said, foregoing both the smile and the offer of a handshake this time. The man looked at him and his eyes glinted with the same type of hatred he had seen in the hospital. "I came to offer you and your family my condolences on your loss," said.

"Thank you."

"I know it's normal to be angry at a time like this. To look for someone to blame. But I don't think you want your anger to end up hurting someone else, do you?"

The man smiled, and Roy felt his skin crawl. "Whatever do you mean?" he asked silkily.

The need for even a pretense of civility suddenly died and Roy stepped a little closer and lowered his voice. "You know exactly what I mean! Johnny and I did our best out there for your wife, and her death wasn't our fault. So don't try to destroy a decent man over something he couldn't control."

Alex Carpenter's smile lingered, and then turned to a twitch. "Did Mr. Gage imply that I had done anything to – destroy him?" he asked pleasantly.

A host of words Roy never used suddenly leapt to his mind, and he shoved them back. Hardly appropriate outside a church. Or in the presence of four devastated children.

And then, as Roy did a double-take, he noticed that the eldest child was not in the car. He wasn't in view anywhere. Maybe he'd left with another relative.

"I don't intend to get into it here with you, Mr. Carpenter," Roy said, trying to control his temper. "I've said what I had to say. I wish you and your family the best."

He turned and left quickly, wanting to get away from the man as quickly as possible.

He walked back to his car and watched the cortege leaving, headlights on, the police motorcade escorting them through the traffic. And as Johnny's Land Rover pulled out of the lot, he saw the eldest Carpenter boy in the seat next to him.

E!

It was a long two days that followed. Roy called Johnny several times, never getting an answer. He stopped by his place once, on his way back from an errand with the kids, just to see how he was doing, but the Land Rover was gone and so was its owner.

It was almost a relief to get back to work on Monday, though he tried not to communicate that to Joanne. Fortunately, his wife seemed to be psychic when it came to him.

"Don't take this wrong way," she said, as she handed him a jacket for the brisk morning air, "but I didn't think Monday was going to get here soon enough for either of us. Did you?" And the way she smiled he knew it wasn't a trick question.

"No."

"Give me a call later?"

"Sure will."

He got to the station early, checked his watch, and waited until just before 8:00 to go in. Then, with his standard lateness, Johnny roared into the parking lot, slammed his brakes on hard, and jumped quickly from his car.

"Morning."

He turned, smiled, and said, "Morning. – You're late?"

Roy shrugged and walked in with him. "Misjudged the traffic," he said.

Johnny chuckled. "Cap'n doesn't care for that excuse any more."

"_I've_ never tried it!"

By the time they made it to the locker room, where nearly everyone else had already dressed or was waiting for roll call, Roy felt much better. He could look forward to calling Joanne.

"Roll call!" The Captain called, jutting his head into the locker and catching Johnny and Roy both hastily changing. "Roy, Brackett called a few minutes ago. He wants to see you and John when we're done with roll call."

"Sure, Cap, thanks." Roy turned to Johnny. "What do you think that's all about?"

Johnny chuckled. "Probably some new PR program he wants us to try out."

"So," Roy started awkwardly, sitting on the bench and pulling on his shoes. "How'd it go?"

Johnny glanced at him, then finished buttoning his shirt while he answered. "They put the casket in the ground, covered it with dirt, said a few more prayers, and we left." He shrugged.

"So – is it over?"

Johnny straddled the bench and wrapped his equipment belt through his pants loops. Then he looked up.

"What did you say to him?"

"Me? I just told him we were sorry for his wife's death. Why?"

Johnny studied him for another minute, then shook his head.

"Come on, guys, stop yammering and get a move on!" Stanley called again.

Johnny hopped into his shoes and Roy grabbed his wallet and they left the locker room.

Roy pulled latrine duty, which the rest of the team found very amusing.

"Gee, Roy, it's been so long. You think you remember how to find the place?"

"Forget that. Does he remember what everything's for?" Johnny teased.

"Very funny," Roy smirked back. His internal relief was growing by leaps and bounds.

"Gage, you've got the dorms. Kelly, break room..." The Klaxons went off. "And the rest of you get yours when we get back."

"Engine 51, fire in an alley, 1600 block of Wayland Avenue. Repeat: 1600 block of Wayland Avenue. Cross Street: Lombardy. Timeout: 0805."

"Engine 51, KMG-365," Roy responded and handed the call sheet to the Captain as he mounted the truck.

Roy waited for the engine to pull out, then turned to Johnny. "Guess we might as well see what Brackett wants," he suggested.

"Anything to put off latrine duty, right?"

Roy grinned and hopped into the squad. It was the difference between night and day, he realized. And without a siren or light, they pulled out into traffic and headed for Rampart Hospital.


	2. Chapter 2

**Three Little Indians**  
**Three Little Indians**  
(Book I in The Firedance Trilogy)  
~ Part 2 of 7 ~  
Copyright © September 2002 by Hunter E. Black

**Any version of this story that does not contain the © date of 2010 is obsolete.**

Genre: Drama  
Pairing: Johnny Gage/Roy DeSoto (slash? Intense friendship); John Gage/Other  
Rated: MA Rape; graphic violence; adult situations.

**Author's Note:** Neither the title of this story nor any reference to "Indians" in the text is intended to offend any Native Americans of any tribe. The author grew up when the term Indian was not considered demeaning, or pejorative. However, the term is used in that way by one character in the story, and the author sincerely hopes he is well-hated.

**Author's Disclaimers:** This story is written for pleasure and is not intended to violate any preexisting copyrights. You may download a copy for your personal use, but not for profit. All characters and incidents in this story are products of the writer's imagination and/or based upon the TV series, _Emergency!_ Any relation to any persons living or dead is really a stretch, if you ask me!

* * *

~ Continued from Part One. ~

Day turned to night the moment Johnny and Roy took a look at Dixie McCall's face behind the base station.

"Hi, boys," she greeted. "Kel's waiting for you."

"Hey, Dixie." Roy's smile and Johnny's grin were met with a stolid gaze.

"Something tells me this isn't a new PR program," Johnny muttered on the way to Brackett's office.

If nothing else, Roy appreciated his attempt to keep it light. It was better than the silence and anger from last week.

Roy knocked on the door and opened it. "Dr. Brackett?"

"Hi, Roy, Johnny." The dark-haired man greeted them with a tight smile that didn't reach his eyes, rose, and gestured them in. "Come on in, have a seat."

They obeyed and slipped their handi-talkies onto the seats beneath them. Johnny sat back, relaxed still, and crossed his legs. "So, what's up Doc?" He smiled with his little joke and waited.

Brackett took his seat again and handed each of them a set of photocopied papers.

"I had a copy made up for each of you. We may have some trouble brewing over the Jenny Carpenter case."

Johnny and Roy each reached forward to take the papers: copies of Jenny Carpenter's autopsy, just the text portion. Roy glanced over it, almost afraid to look at Johnny, knowing, even without looking, that his lightheartedness would have dissolved. The statistics of Jenny Carpenter's life, as if that were what she had been reduced to, flashed quickly through Roy's mind as he scanned the top sheet. Date and place of birth, maiden name (left blank), date of death, cause of death, place of death...

He scanned the report then met Brackett's gaze. He could see out of the corner of his eye that Johnny was looking at the doctor: he wasn't sure his partner had even bothered to read through the report.

"It says natural causes, secondary to severe hypotension and cardiac arrest."

Brackett nodded and furrowed his brow. "Yeah. Best we can determine at this point is that the syncopal episode she suffered at the house was brought on by cardiac arrhythmias, which we just couldn't pull her out of. Maybe her system was weak or compromised." He paused. "She did have a small valve defect," he said, glancing at his copy of the report in front of him. "Probably congenital, not something she would have had to worry about. Unless..."

"Unless?" Roy pressed.

Bracket glanced at Johnny. "Unless she were given digitalis at the wrong time."

Johnny shook his head. "Which she wasn't. You never ordered it, there was no reason to."

"I know. And the tapes and log confirm that. I told Mr. Carpenter that when I had him in here."

"Wait a minute," Roy interrupted, leaning forward in his chair. "When you called him in to talk to him about the autopsy, this was the conclusion? Natural causes?"

"Right. But I wanted to tell him about the valve defect, since she might have passed it on to her children. Thought I should warn him to keep an eye out for any possible symptoms."

"So what's the problem?" Johnny asked, his eyes narrowed.

Brackett sighed. "The problem is that Mr. Carpenter came back a day later with an empty vial of digitoxin." Brackett picked up a vial that had been sitting on his desk, unnoticed for its ordinariness in this setting. "Just like this."

It was a standard vial, the size they carried in the drug box on the squad.

"He said one of his kids had found it under the sofa the night their mother died, and he hadn't thought about it until I mentioned to him that digitalis could cause problems."

"You say 'like' that," Roy started. "Where's the one he brought in?"

Brackett's unhappiness increased. "I'm afraid I had to turn it over to the authorities."

"What authorities?" Johnny's tone was flat, almost lifeless.

"Our standard tox and chem screens didn't check for abnormal digitalis levels, especially since we knew none were prescribed. But once Mr. Carpenter brought this in, I'm afraid we had to follow up on it."

"Meaning?" Roy asked. He was on the edge of the chair, and he wished Brackett would just say it and get it out in the open.

"Meaning the coroner's office has gotten an order to exhume the body and test it for digitalis."

Roy felt as if he'd been kicked in the gut.

Johnny crossed his ankles and sank back against the chair, staring dully ahead. "I didn't give her digitoxin, Doc," he said quietly. "You never ordered it. She didn't need it. We started a D5W TKO drip, that was it. She was on O2, she was breathing on her own, but she was still in respiratory distress. I monitored her vitals all the way and handed her off to you."

"When she went hypotensive and into V-fib and couldn't be revived." Brackett put the vial down and stared at his blotter. "I've got to tell you guys, there's probably going to be an inquest. And if there is, Johnny, you're going to be on the hot seat."

"Doc, I was there!" Roy jumped in. "I saw everything he was doing! The only time he could have given her anything besides what you prescribed was in the ambulance, right? And if he did that, the vial wouldn't have been left behind at the house!"

"I know, Roy, but we have to take the charge seriously. There's going to be another autopsy."

"And the next time you tell Carpenter what might have killed his wife? What's he going to come in with then?" Roy demanded. "Doc, I know this guy just lost his wife and all, but I went to her funeral, and I talked to him afterwards and, well..." he hesitated, not wanting to say too much. "I don't know, something about him seems – "

"A little psychotic?" Brackett finished for him. He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back. "Yeah, I caught that, too. But even a psychotic claim has to be checked out when it looks like malpractice. Or murder."

"This is crazy," Johnny muttered. He wasn't looking at either of them any more, just staring woodenly at a spot on Brackett's desk.

"I know," the doctor acknowledged. "But I wanted you guys to know. It's out of my hands, now. The paramedic review board will decide what to do if anything shows up on the chem screen. And I should tell you, there's more than local interest in her death."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning the FBI's been asking questions about her. Any idea why?" he asked, looking at each of them. Roy shook his head. Johnny closed his eyes for a few seconds, then opened them and continued to stare blankly ahead. "Well, I figure she must've worked for them. Maybe someone was after her, who knows."

"Yeah. Who knows," Roy repeated.

"Johnny, you can't think of any way you might have mistakenly –" Brackett started.

"Mistakenly?" Johnny glared at Brackett. "Mistakenly reached into the back of the drug box for a drug no one had even mentioned, or ever thought of, pulled it out, filled a syringe, and given an IV push – mistakenly – while Roy was right there? Sorry, Doc, I can't think of a `mistake' like that I could've made!"

His coil snapped and he jolted from his chair, tossing the autopsy on Brackett's desk. He grabbed his handi-talkie and stomped out of the room.

Roy stood, and Brackett followed suit, but for once, Johnny's temper didn't seem to have aggravated the physician.

"Sorry, he's just – "

"I understand."

"Look, Doc, Carpenter's got it in for Johnny. I don't know why, except that maybe he needs to blame someone for what happened. But Johnny never gave that woman anything but oxygen and D5W. Neither of us did," he added.

"I believe you, Roy. You and Johnny are about the best this program's ever had. I can't imagine how anything like this could have happened by accident."

Roy met the doctor's gaze evenly for a moment. "Meaning that any digitalis in her system would have been put there deliberately."

Brackett nodded. "Any sign of digitalis means someone wanted that woman dead. And that's murder."

Johnny was waiting, predictably, in the squad. Roy got in silently, put his copy of the autopsy on the seat between them and pulled out of the parking lot. He waited, but Johnny was so lost in thought, he never made a move toward the microphone.

"LA, Squad 51 available," Roy reported.

"Squad 51, 10-4."

Johnny sighed. "Sorry."

"No problem."

Johnny had nothing more to say, and Roy couldn't think of anything safe to ask for the time being, so they rode back to the station in silence.

"What do you think the FBI is interested in this for?" Roy finally asked as they pulled in.

Johnny shrugged. "I wouldn't worry about it," he offered.

Roy smiled, almost laughed, and turned to his partner. "Believe it or not, Junior, coming from you that's almost reassuring."

He got a weak smiled in return as they climbed out of the cab.

"Johnny, Roy?" The captain's call as their feet touched the floor didn't bode well, Roy thought. They went to the man who waited just outside his office.

"Got a minute?" It was a rhetorical question and they followed him in.

The two men in the captain's office didn't actually need to be introduced, Roy thought. They looked like every FBI agent he'd ever seen portrayed on TV, and he almost laughed as the dark-suited men rose and flashed their badges.

"This is Special Agent Dick Weathers, and Special Agent Pete Singleton," the captain introduced. "This is Paramedic Roy DeSoto and Paramedic John Gage."

"Nice to meet you," Roy said, feeling stupid as he shook their hands. What did you say when you were introduced to a FBI agent? Johnny shook their hands without comment.

"They'd like to ask you two a few questions about Jenny Carpenter," Stanley explained. "I told them to take all the time they needed, provided we aren't called out on a run." He turned to the two suits. "You sure I can't get you some coffee?"

"No, we're fine," the man introduced as Weathers said. He had sandy hair and blue eyes and made Roy think of nice weather. It was helpful having a little device like that to keep people straight.

"I'd like a cup, Captain," Johnny tried. His smile – and cockiness – were back, and Roy stared at him, surprised and a little wary.

The captain scowled in mock fury. "I'll make up a special pot just for you," he replied, and then left, closing the door.

Johnny took one of the two open seats, now that the men who'd been introduced were standing, looked that them and said, "So, what can we do for you?"

If Roy hadn't known better, he'd have said that either Johnny was used to dealing with FBI agents on a daily basis, or that he had taken a hefty dose of amphetamines on the way back to the station. Barring either of those possibilities, he could only stand and stare and wait for whatever came next.

"We have a few questions, as your captain mentioned, about Jenny Carpenter." Weathers again spoke for them, and Roy decided he was probably the senior partner. "Captain Stanley said you were talking with Dr. Brackett this morning, so I assume he told you we've already questioned him and his staff."

"Yup," Johnny volunteered.

Nonplussed, both men took out small steno pads and pens, and began to jot notes. Roy wondered how much trouble being overly-confident in the face of men who were supposed to intimidate could get them into.

"Did either of you know Jenny Carpenter before her death?"

"Yeah, sure. About two hours before her death."

Johnny's cockiness was going to backfire very soon, Roy was sure. "No, we hadn't met her before that," he clarified, and then realized that he might have clarified mistakenly: Johnny still hadn't answered that question to Roy's satisfaction.

"Is that true for you as well, Mr. Gage?"

"He wouldn't have said it if it weren't." Both men made notes, and Roy shifted his stance, very uncomfortable with the situation.

"So neither of you had ever worked with them before? Either Mr. or Mrs. Carpenter?"

"Nope," Johnny answered.

"No."

"And you didn't know either of them socially?" Roy shook his head. Johnny just stayed silent. "Personally?" Roy shook his head again.

"Mr. Gage?"

"Look, man, until last Tuesday, I never knew anyone named Jenny or Alex Carpenter, or their kids, okay?" It was the nearly same way he'd phrased it, finally, to Roy.

"Do either of you know any reason why someone might want Mrs. Carpenter dead?"

"No," Roy said. Johnny shook his head.

"Do you know anyone who would want her dead?"

The questions were closing in. "No," Roy repeated, and again, Johnny sat calmly in the chair and shook his head.

The men glanced at each other and, as if in agreement, closed their note pads and turned to Roy.

"Mr. DeSoto," Weathers said, "thank you very much for your help. We'd like to speak to Mr. Gage a bit further."

Roy's stomach turned over: he'd been right! Johnny's attitude had made them suspicious.

But Johnny stood from the chair, smiling, hands resting casually on his hips. "Hey, save me some coffee," he called as Roy started to leave. The glimmer in his eyes made Roy wonder again about the amphetamines. Or maybe manic depression? Maybe Johnny had just finally snapped...

He left, and as he closed the door, he heard Johnny say, "Man, you guys really need to get your act together!"

Yup: Johnny had snapped.

The rest of the team were working on their various duties when he came out, for which he was grateful. The captain, on the other hands, was waiting in the kitchen, nursing a cup of coffee, and when he saw Roy without Johnny his eyes darkened.

"What happened?"

Roy made his way to the stove and poured himself a cup of coffee. "Well, it's a just a guess, but I think acting like a wise-guy with the FBI isn't the smartest route to take with them."

"Oh, no," Hank groaned. Roy sat at the table across from him. "They're still talking to him?"

"Actually," Roy said, staring at his coffee, "when I left, it sounded like he was giving them a lecture."

"Aw, jeez! Doesn't that partner of yours know when to lay off?"

Roy shrugged.

"What happened with Brackett?"

Roy looked up. "They're exhuming the body to check for digitalis. Apparently, Mr. Carpenter 'found' an empty vial of it in his house. After Brackett told him it could have been dangerous to his wife."

"You lost me," Hank said, shaking his head.

Roy took a breath and backed up, giving him the outline of the situation, leaving out, as Joanne had recommended, his own hunches and concerns.

"Well, if it's any comfort, I haven't heard anything from HQ about this yet, so the paramedic review board isn't involved at this point," the captain offered.

"No, they wouldn't be. Carpenter isn't filing charges against us, he's too smart for that."

"Too smart?"

And that, unfortunately, led him into suppositions and hunches. He grimaced. "There's something about this guy, Cap. Even Dr. Brackett picked up on it. Like he's got some personal vendetta against Johnny."

The captain's eyebrows drew together. "So Johnny knows him?"

Roy wrapped his hands around the mug. "Seems to. But he won't admit it."

A sound behind him made Roy turn as the captain looked up and stood. The two FBI agents, with Johnny behind them, came into the kitchen.

"Captain, thank you for your time. Mr. DeSoto and Mr. Gage have been very helpful in our investigation. If you or anyone happens to think of anything that might be pertinent," Weathers continued, pulling out his wallet, "give me a call." His partner also handed Stanley a card, which the lean man pocketed in his slacks.

"Will do."

Roy glanced at Johnny. The younger man seemed less manic, he thought, calmer. The captain looked at Gage, a bit surprised by Weathers' words.

"Well, we're happy to help," Captain Stanley said. "Did Mrs. Carpenter work for the FBI?" he asked.

Weathers smiled apologetically. "I'm not at liberty to answer any questions regarding our investigation, Captain. But we do appreciate all your help, and Mr. Gage's and DeSoto's as well. Oh, we made a call from your office, a local call. Hope you don't mind."

"Not at all," the captain replied.

"We'll see ourselves out."

They left through the bay, heading toward the back parking lot, and Johnny walked into the kitchen and poured the final cup of coffee from the pot. He stood near the sink drinking it, waiting, Roy thought, for the questions he expected.

"Well?" Roy asked.

"Well what?" He shrugged and sipped the coffee.

"What did – what happened in there?"

"Nothing. I just explained to them what I knew and didn't know, and they seemed fine with it." He glanced at his watch. He had said what he had planned to say, and he was finished. "I guess we have real work to do, right?" He slugged the last of his coffee down and put the cup in the sink, and headed past them.

E!

In the bay, while they checked over their equipment, Roy glanced up at his partner and said, "So what happened in there?"

Both of them squatted on the floor, checking their supply boxes, the feeling reminiscent of so many mornings like this that he and Johnny had had together. Johnny looked at him and tilted his eyebrows up in the center, an expression that made him look enormously self-confident.

"I told you what happened. I just explained to them that they were barking up the wrong tree. You just gotta know how to handle these government types, Roy."

"Oh." Roy grinned. "And I suppose you're an expert in dealing with the FBI?"

"As a matter of fact – "

And on cue, the Klaxons went off. "Station 51. Multiple vehicle accident with injuries. Highway..."

They scrambled as the rest of the crew came from various doors to join them in the bay. They put away their equipment and Roy grabbed the slip from the captain, handed it Johnny, and prepared to roll.

Four runs later, Roy called his house as he waited for dinner, and talked briefly with Joanne, reassuring her as well as he could. He didn't mention the second, pending autopsy: there was no need to worry her for the next two days about something that, in all likelihood, would never amount to a thing. He said goodnight to his kids and hung up. Johnny was looking for something interesting on the TV, and Henry was fighting him for a seat on the sofa.

Then the phone rang and Roy, who was closest, answered it.

"John Gage, please," said a familiar voice. A sickeningly familiar voice.

He covered the mouthpiece and said, "Johnny, it's for you."

"Hmm?" Johnny turned from the TV and glanced at his watch, puzzled. "Thanks. I don't think there's anything better than that," he offered, pointing at the evening news.

"It's Carpenter," Roy whispered as he handed over the phone.

And for the first time since they'd left Brackett's office, Johnny's composure slipped and the color drained from his face. He took a deep breath and put the phone to his ear, and Roy moved away deliberately.

"This is Gage." For several long seconds, he just listened.

Roy busied himself helping Stoker get dinner on, and the rest of the crew gathered, smelling the meal. It was a simple hamburger dinner with fries and coleslaw and potato salad, and it was ready quickly. The team gathered at the table and started serving themselves, and still, Johnny just stood silent at the phone, his body tensed, his hand clenched around the receiver.

"Gage, your burger's gettin' cold," Chet called finally. The stillness in the room had become as deafening as the Klaxons, as everyone realized the man was frozen in position.

"John?" the captain called.

Slowly, Johnny hung up the receiver, still saying nothing, and turned to them. His lips were white, except for a small blood spot where he'd apparently bitten through the lower lip.

"Yeah, I'll be right there."

"Who was that?" Chet prodded.

"Uh, wrong number. I'm gonna wash up. I'll be right back."

The Captain took an unhappy breath and looked at Roy.

Roy cleared his throat and put down his hamburger. "I'll be right back." He left the puzzled group and went to the latrine.

Johnny had splashed water on his face and was standing at the sink, supporting his weight on his hands as they gripped the edge of the counter.

Roy stood against the far wall and looked at him through the mirror. He crossed his arms and tried the light approach. "Maybe you could use a short course in handling psychopaths," he suggested.

Johnny closed his eyes and sucked the blood from his lip. "Just give me a minute, Roy."

"Sure. Then you can tell me what this guy has on you."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Yes, you do. And I'm beginning to think I do, too," he bluffed. He saw Johnny meet his eyes in the mirror again. "So, either you can tell me what's going on, or you can just let me draw my own conclusions."

"Roy, you said it yourself. He's an angry, grieving widower who wants someone to blame for his wife's death. That's it."

"He's an angry, psychotic widower, who may be responsible for his wife's death, and he's trying to frame you for it," Roy corrected, moving closer. "He's got something on you he's using to tie you into a knot, and so far, the only thing I can think of that would turn you inside out like this is something I don't even want to think about."

Johnny looked away but didn't say anything. After a moment, he reached for a towel, and dried his face and took a heavy breath.

"Let's get dinner."

Roy grabbed his arm. "Don't shut me out."

Johnny pulled free. "Then don't go where you're not invited."

He headed for the kitchen, and Roy followed behind. The nightmare was beginning again.

E!

The late-night calls began again as well. There was no use following and listening, Roy decided. All he'd heard so far was enough to tell him that Johnny would sit and listen to some form of verbal abuse, occasionally protesting, mostly pleading, sometimes begging.

It made Roy sick to his stomach thinking about it, as if Johnny were willingly submitting to the emotional torture. When his partner rose silently that night and walked through the dorm, and Roy glanced at the small clock near his bed to confirm the time, he actually realized he was going to be sick. He waited until he was sure Johnny was on the phone, waited as long as he could, then bolted for the latrine and puked. He brushed his teeth in the darkness, not wanting to risk the light, sloshed water in his mouth, then went back to bed.

After about fifteen minutes, Johnny padded back to his bunk, and Roy rolled over with his back to him, wanting to hide the smell of toothpaste fresh on his breath. Johnny had a good nose. Less than an hour later they were woken again, this time by another car accident.

"Man," Johnny mumbled as they rapidly pulled on their turnout gear, "I hate accidents at this hour. They're always bad."

"I know," Roy agreed. He tried to get a good look at his partner, but they had to move fast, and he really couldn't. They rolled out

It was a single car collision, and no sign of fire. There was, however, a need for the engine's floodlights and equipment to help them extricate the victims. The car had plowed into a concrete divider on the highway, going probably 50 or 60 mph, Roy guessed from the damage.

"See, what'd I tell ya?" Johnny said glumly as they pulled up. "What do you want to bet we got at least one DOA?"

"No bet." The car looked like used tin foil, crumbled and ready for the trash can.

Johnny grabbed the drug box and scope, Roy got the oxygen and trauma kit, and together they began surveying the damage and checking for passengers.

"Cap, I think we're gonna need the porta-power over here,"

Johnny called as he raced to the driver's door.

Roy headed for the passenger's seat and saw a small movement and heard the tiniest whimper in the back. "We got a victim in the back, I think it's a child," he called out. "Johnny, the driver's seat has fallen back into the rear. We're gonna need to get the driver out so we can get to the kid."

"Right." Johnny reached through the broken window, calling the woman. "Ma'am? Ma'am, can you hear me?" He pulled out his pen light and flicked it in front of her eyes. He pressed his fingers against her neck. Then he sighed and pulled back.

Chet had set up the porta-power.

"Let's work on getting the girl out," Johnny said, and Roy realized he'd been right not to make the bet.

It took several minutes, during which time Roy continued struggling in the back to see if he could find the source of the noise. Then, while Johnny was still prying the door open, a small head of strawberry blonde hair popped up from the back of the floor, not behind the driver but on the opposite side.

"Johnny!" Roy called, racing to the other side of the car, "I think I've got her."

Johnny stopped the porta-power and Roy reached into the back seat through the shattered glass and carefully pulled the screaming girl from the car.

"It's alright," he whispered to her as he bundled her and pulled her from the wreckage, "you're okay now." He carried her to the squad and sat her on the running board. In the light from the engine, the child looked relatively undamaged and bloodless.

Johnny handed the porta-power to Chet and while he and Marco continued extricating the body of the driver, Johnny set up the biophone.

"Captain, we're gonna need a second ambulance," he called as the sirens from the first came into range. "Rampart Base, this is Squad 51."

"Go ahead 51."

"Rampart, we have two victims of a vehicle accident. Victim one is female. She's DOA at the scene."

"What's your name, sweetheart?" Roy asked, as he wrapped the cuff around the child's arm.

"Lisa," the girl sobbed.

Johnny looked up sharply, then forced his attention back to his log on the biophone. "Victim two is also a female, approximately six years old. She seems to have suffered minor contusions only. No obvious signs of breaks or other trauma. Stand by for vitals."

"Where's Mommy?"

"Don't worry about Mommy," Roy said quietly. "Do you hurt anywhere?"

"Where's Sharon?"

"Sharon?" Johnny's eyes sharpened.

"She was in the back with me. Where is she?"

"Who's Sharon?" Roy asked, a growing feeling of dread in his stomach.

Johnny grabbed the biophone. "Rampart, we may have a third victim. Please stand by."

"Standing by, 51."

"My sister. She was in the back..."

"Chet!" Johnny was up and running toward the car. "We've got another victim in here! Get this seat out now!"

"Okay, sweetheart, listen," Roy explained to the traumatized child, "we're going to get Sharon out. Right now, I'm gonna take a look at you, though, okay?" He finished with her vitals and called them in. She was shaken, there were multiple abrasions on her face and arms, but no signs of concussion. Her pupils were equal and reactive, her reflexes were good. She shivered, and he wrapped her in a blanket, and gestured the captain over.

"Can you watch her?" he asked once Rampart had cleared her for transport without any need for further care at the moment. "Her sister's still in the car."

"Got it," Captain Stanley said. He moved over to the child and sat next to her, then pulled her into his lap. "I'm Captain Stanley, what's your name?" Roy heard as he left and went back to the gut-wrenching sound of metal being twisted away from its hinges.

They had the door off, and Johnny and Chet were placing the woman's body onto a blanket on the ground. Chet covered her with another blanket while Johnny moved back and began pulling the front seat forward.

"Easy Johnny, I think I see her," Roy called, moving back to his original position behind the woman. Johnny was lost in his work, his muscles hyperextending as he furiously yanked the seat from where it had fallen.

But what Roy saw when the seat came off was what he had prayed not to see. The child in the back had been crushed by the weight of the car seat and her own mother. Her face was nearly the only thing that hadn't been pulverized in the collision.

She was clearly Lisa's sister. Her twin sister.

Her eyes were open in death, her mouth wide as if she had died screaming. And her chest had been punctured clear through with a metal rod from the front seat.

Roy put his hand around her neck, feeling for any sign of life, then checked the distal pulses. There was no respiration, either. And the blood had stopped flowing some time ago.

"Roy?" Chet asked quietly, as both paramedics stopped their frantic movements. Roy glanced up and saw Johnny next to him, staring at the small corpse.

And then, as he watched, something came down over Johnny's eyes. A curtain dropped, and he lost all expression. He helped Roy pull the child from the car, his movements well-trained and exactly right, but devoid of any further involvement in the situation. He was physically there, but that was about all.

"Nothing more we can do for her, Chet," Roy answered finally. The look in Johnny's eyes concerned him. Emotional shut-down was more dangerous in their work than almost anything else, and Roy had seen the look in other paramedics' eyes before.

"Oh, damn," Chet muttered, and his shoulders slumped with defeat. "Damn."

The second ambulance arrived on the scene.

"Johnny, why don't you go in with Lisa," Roy suggested. "I'll get them into the second ambulance and follow in the squad."

Johnny stared at the lifeless body a moment longer, then nodded. "Fine." He stood stiffly and walked back to the child. Roy watched him carefully.

"Come on, Lisa," Johnny said, his voice calm and guarded, but remote. "Let's get you to the hospital, okay?"

"What about Mommy and Sharon?"

"The other men are going to take care of them." He picked up the child and put his hat on her head, and said, "Let's go take a ride in an ambulance. Ever ride in an ambulance?"

Everything was right, every word, the standard distraction procedures, the calmness, the determination to keep the child from thinking too much about what had happened until someone professionally trained could tell her.

Everything except the sound of life in the paramedic's voice.

The captain came over and sighed heavily. "She's gone, too?" he guessed, as he watched Johnny carry the girl away.

"Yeah." Both bodies were covered with blankets, lying on the asphalt. Roy stood up and made a very hard decision. "Cap'n, I think this one really got to Johnny."

The man's expression sharpened warily. "How so?"

Roy shook his head and wiped his face. "I don't know, I just – saw something happen when we pulled the girl out. Like he clicked off, you know?"

Stanley nodded and took a heavy breath. "Okay. Let's get this cleaned up and maybe we'll get a little rest before tomorrow."

Tomorrow. Translation: _I'll talk to Johnny about it then. _

Roy grimaced. He'd had to tell him. That kind of thing wasn't something he could play around with. Shut-down made rescue personnel vulnerable. Sometimes they stopped caring about their own safety or the safety of their coworkers. More often than not, they stopped looking for the right signs, the subtle hints that could often spell the difference between an accurate assessment of a situation and the assessment a layman might make.

It was a risk he couldn't ignore, and he knew Johnny would have done the same thing if their positions had been reversed. He prayed he would have.

When he got to Rampart, he found Johnny standing by the base station, one foot flat against the wall behind him, his head back, his eyes closed.

"Johnny?"

The man opened his eyes and started toward him.

"How's Lisa?" Roy asked, as they walked toward the squad.

Johnny shrugged. "She's lost her twin sister and her mother. How else would she be? She's fine."

Johnny reported them available and Roy sat back and turned to his partner. "You shut down back there," he said quietly.

Johnny had leaned back against the seat, his eyes shut. He didn't respond.

"When we pulled Sharon from the car," Roy prodded him, like trying a sternal rub, to see if he could get a reaction. "You just shut down."

Johnny shrugged, his eyes still shut, and said, "Maybe I'm getting too old for this job."

"At twenty-seven? I don't think so, Junior."

He opened his eyes and looked at Roy, his eyes still empty. "Then maybe I'm just not cut out for it any more."

Roy felt his chest tighten. "Maybe you should take some time off?" he suggested, and put the squad in gear. "Maybe take a few days, go camping? You know," he suggested, as they pulled out, "Joanne's sister's got a cabin in the mountains, not too far from here. It's not real big or anything, but I'll bet I could get a couple days, maybe we could go up there – "

"Yeah," Johnny agreed quickly, still trying to mimic sleep. "Let's talk about it tomorrow, okay?"

"Okay, sure." Roy didn't bother to point out that it already was tomorrow.

It was almost four when they got back. The engine crew had returned and crept back to sleep. Roy headed for the dorm, but Johnny went toward the break room. "Aren't you going to try to get some sleep?"

"Yeah, I'll be there in a minute."

Roy didn't argue. He was too tired. He went to his bunk, stripped off his turnout gear, and shut off the dim bedside lamp.

The minute turned into a quarter hour, then thirty minutes.

Finally, after forty-five minutes, Roy could stand it no longer and got up to check his partner. After all, he rationalized to himself, he'd gotten used to hearing Johnny's breathing in the bunk nearby: without it, he wasn't going to get to sleep.

Johnny wasn't in the break room, but he had made a pot of coffee and one of the cabinets was open. Roy checked the locker room, which was likewise vacant, then headed to the back parking lot.

Johnny stood in the corner near the doorway, silhouetted against the brick wall by the floodlight that shone down on the space. Leaning against the wall, he held a cup of coffee, still steaming in the cool night air. Tears on his face glistened in the flood light. His chest worked heavily, hard, wracking spasm wrenched from him as he stood there, his eyes screwed tightly shut, cradling the coffee against his sternum. Roy watched for a minute, torn between wanting to help and not wanting to intrude.

Then, with a low groan that was almost a growl of pain, Johnny slammed the cup against the brick wall and Roy heard it shatter. There was enough light for him to see the coffee spill down the side of the wall, glistening as it drizzled to the pavement. Johnny held his hand flat against the bricks, the shards falling through his fingers as he ground his palm against the wall. The fluid on Johnny's palm when he finally pulled it away was neither the color nor consistency of coffee. Roy watched his partner assess the damage with a muttered reaction he couldn't quite hear. Then after a few seconds, Johnny turned and headed back inside.

Roy had no intention of being caught a second time. He moved quickly, quietly, back to the dorm and slipped under his blanket. He heard, because he was listening for it, the door from the parking lot open and shut, then heard Johnny rummaging through the supplies in the squad.

Twenty minutes later, his partner came in, stripped to his undershirt and boxers, and flopped on his back, tossing his arm over his eyes. His hand was bandaged.

Somewhere between full alertness and the semi-sleep he fell into before dawn, Roy made another decision. He got up early before the rest of the crew, and noticed that Johnny actually did seem to have fallen asleep at last. He went out to the back lot and cleaned up the bloody shards of the broken mug and tossed them away. Most of the blood – and there was a lot – had stayed on them, not on the wall or the concrete. Nevertheless, he scrubbed the area clean, then went back and took his shower and got dressed.

The Klaxons woke the rest of the team about half-an-hour before they were scheduled to awaken. It was a call for the squad, and Roy scribbled the instructions and grabbed the mike to respond to dispatch, listening as Johnny came into the bay.

"KMG-365," Roy finished, and got into the cab next to his partner. He didn't bother talking yet. He hadn't had any coffee and Johnny was clearly trying to wake himself up as well.

They drove two miles to the site of the ominous and unhelpful "man down", which, in this case, turned out to be a badly dehydrated street drunk who had fallen in front of a donut shop as the owners had arrived to open it up.

"Will he be okay?" the small Chinese owner asked as Johnny and Roy set up the IV and put the drunk on a low flow of oxygen.

"Oh, I think he'll fine, he just needs some fluids," Roy answered, smiling at the man's genuine concern.

The ambulance arrived quickly, and Johnny began to pack up. "I'll bring the squad," he said, not bothering to meet his partner's eyes.

Roy helped load the man, who was reeking of alcohol, into the ambulance, and watched Johnny finish cleaning up the area until the doors closed.

"You're here early," Roy said to Dr. Morton, who greeted them tiredly at the ambulance entrance.

"Late, actually," Morton corrected dryly. "How's he doing?" he asked, gesturing to the scraggly man on the gurney. "Pretty stable, but he's still throwing a few PVCs. He's not coherent."

They took the man into the treatment room, and Roy waited until he knew he was no longer needed, then left.

Johnny had arrived, had come into the hospital, rather than waiting in the squad, and looked relatively normal. Given the night he'd had, Roy thought, that said something.

"Hey, Roy, Johnny."

"Dr. Early," Roy greeted.

"You just bring us another client?"

"Dr. Morton's got him in two," Roy reported.

Early glanced over both of them and said, "Nice bit of bandaging, Johnny. You do that yourself?"

Roy watched as Johnny realized his hand was now on display.

He grinned awkwardly and said, "Yeah, I guess I could have paid more attention."

The bandage around his left palm was clumsily wrapped, and blood was seeping through it. Early took his hand without invitation or permission, and looked at it.

"What happened?"

"Oh, we got a call in the middle of the night. Car accident. Guess I cut myself on the glass and didn't realize it `til we got back to the station." He pulled his hand free of the unwanted inspection and turned to Roy. "You ready?"

"I think I'd better take a look at that, Johnny. Might need a couple stitches," Early suggested kindly.

"No, it's fine, just a scratch. Roy?"

Roy hesitated and shot a pleading look at Early, wondering if the man would pick up on it.

"I'd really like to look at it, John," the doctor said, a little more firmly. "Just take a minute and I'm free right now."

"It's fine," John said again, his voice growing cooler. "I'll rewrap it when I get back to the station."

"Have you had a tetanus booster – "

"Yeah, last year. Come on, Roy, we gotta get back to the station." He didn't wait for Roy to agree. He turned and headed toward the squad.

"Thanks for trying," Roy said to Early.

"He okay?"

Roy thought about it for a second, then shook his head. "No."

Johnny was adjusting the bandage around his hand when Roy came back to the car, but stopped the moment he realized Roy was close.

"Squad 51 available," Johnny radioed in. If his hand hurt him at all, there was no sign of it.

Roy sat in his seat for a full minute, staring out the window, trying to choose his next words. Johnny seemed in no real hurry, and Roy glanced down, intending to look at his hand. Instead, his eye fell on the autopsy report he'd left lying there yesterday.

NAME: Carpenter, Jennifer Rayburn  
DATE OF BIRTH: August 28, 1946  
PLACE OF BIRTH: Boulderton, WY

A slow, awful reality suddenly sank in. And a half dozen conclusions Roy had drawn earlier dissolved in the new light.

Dammit, why hadn't he seen it before?

_"You're going to do an autopsy?" _

_"If the family requests one." _

_"Well I request one!" _

Without making any more sense than his previous conclusions had made, the world made a new kind of sense. A new, horrible kind of sense...

He took a deep breath and revised what he'd been going to say. He needed to be sure he really had the right answer this time, before saying anything. Johnny hadn't fallen for Roy's bluff before: if he tried another hand at poker with his partner, he was going to make sure he held the upper hand.

"I'll make a deal with you," Roy said, finally moving from their spot at the ambulance entrance. "Let me take a look at your hand when we get back to the station, and if I think you should see Early or someone, then you go have them take a look. Okay?"

"It's just a scratch."

"It's not a scratch," Roy said. He risked a glance at his partner and didn't like what he saw. "Half the shards from that mug I picked up were covered with blood."

That got his attention. Johnny glared at him silently.

"The coffee was still steaming when you smashed it into the wall, so you might have some minor burns. And you probably didn't do a very good job cleaning it out at five o'clock in the morning, since you didn't want to turn on the lights and wake anyone up."

There wasn't a word from the other side of the seat.

"Now, be a cooperative patient, and I don't care what story you tell the captain or anyone else. But if you aren't, then I'll have to say something."

"How long did you– " Johnny finally started. Then he cleared his throat. He didn't finish the question.

"Long enough."

They were at the station, and Roy didn't bother to slow down to give him time to think of a way out of this. He pulled up in front of the bay, and backed in.

"So, what's it gonna be, Junior?"

It only a second before he got the angry answer. "You win."

Roy shook his head. "I'm not winning, Johnny. Just trying to keep you from losing."

They pulled the trauma kit from the squad and Roy opened it up while Johnny sat on the side running- board and began cutting away the hastily-applied bandages from his hand.

"You've got me scared, Johnny," Roy said.

Johnny finished peeling off the gauze around his hand and held it, palm up, for inspection and Roy got his first look at what his partner had done to himself in the pre-dawn hours of the morning.

He'd been right: the coffee had scalded the center of his palm and there was one jagged, open gash.

"You'll need stitches in there," he said, knowing that Johnny was too well-trained not to have known that himself.

Roy pulled out tweezers, peroxide, 4x4s and Silvadene for the burns.

"Somewhere around six o'clock this morning," Roy said, beginning to remove more of the broken glass than the victim had done, "I made a decision about what I'm going to do here."

Johnny was silent.

"Before the end of this shift, you're going to cough up the truth. Either to me or to the Captain, I don't care. But you can't take this guy on alone. He's got something on you, and I don't really care what it is. We've all messed up sometime or another in our lives."

He paused and pulled open several sterile 4x4s. He spread a light film of Silvadene on them and covered the central, burned area of Johnny's hand, then continued with a topical antibiotic on the rest of the area, covering the gashes and cuts that had left the center of his hand looking like he'd been clawed by a bear.

"You have any tingling or numbness in your fingers?"

"No."

That was good. Two of the lacerations could have nicked tendons. That would have caused some real problems.

"Anyway, I don't care whether I'm invited or not any more. I've been standing back, letting you try to handle this for a week now, and it's only getting worse. So here's the deal. I don't care what you say to anyone around here or at Rampart. But from here on out, either tell me truth or don't bother telling me anything.

"I saw what happened to you on the rescue last night, Johnny, and I can't just ignore that. So that's why you've got `til the end of this shift to tell me the truth and let me help you."

"Or?"

Roy finished rewrapping the hand, and began to clean up the area. "Or I'm gonna have to talk to the captain."

"Talk to the captain about what?" Hank Stanley's voice took both of them off guard. "John, what happened to your hand?"

"Oh, hi, Cap," Roy said, nervously. "I just thought we'd better let you know – "

"Oh, I cut it last night," Johnny covered. Neither of them was very convincing, Roy knew.

"I was just saying, we needed to talk to you about it, let you know I think Johnny probably needs a couple stitches.

"Hmm." Translation: _I'll talk with you later, DeSoto._ "Okay. Can you work around that?"

Johnny stood hastily and plastered a grin on his face. "Oh, yeah, it's not bad. I'm fine. Right?" he demanded, shooting a quick look at his partner.

"Yeah," Roy agreed, and finished cleaning up his makeshift surgical area.

"Okay, good. Well, I was going to give you latrine duty, John, but I guess in light of your hand, I'll switch you off to the break room."

"Thanks, Cap. Who's gonna hate me for the day?"

"Marco."

"Could be worse," Johnny said, and headed away from them.

The Captain stood by the squad, waiting until Roy finished loading the kit back into the car. "How'd he do this morning?"

Roy shrugged. "He seemed fine."

"Want me to talk to him now, or see how it goes for a while?"

Roy met the captain's gaze for several minutes, trying to determine how much of his conversation with Johnny he'd overheard just now. It was unusual for Stanley to give him this much leeway, considering all that had happened in the past two shifts.

"Maybe give him a little time," Roy agreed. The captain had a better poker face than he'd realized until now.

"Okay, it's your call. By the way, would you remind him that I still need a next of kin for his personnel form?"

"Yeah, sure." Just another oddity, Roy thought. And at the moment, the least of his concerns.

E!

The chance to return Johnny to Rampart to fulfill his part of their bargain – the first part, anyway – came about an hour later. They were called on a run involving a pole-vaulting contest, four teenagers, and an equal number of cactus plants. Two embarrassed, prickly young victims were delivered to the hospital, once they'd been extricated from the man-eating plants and the laughing taunts of their classmates. Roy was torn between wincing with empathy and joining in the laughter. Johnny took it in stride, neither amused nor particularly sympathetic, and carefully dug as many cactus needles from his patient as he could, trying to avoid having any of them puncture his own lacerations.

Dr. Morton, who looked completely exhausted by now, took the first patient, and a new intern took the second.

"Kelly or Joe will check on them in a while," Dixie explained. "You two here for supplies?"

"Well, actually," Roy said, leaning on the base station counter, "Johnny could use a little medical attention," he said, waving his handi-talkie in the direction of his partner. Dixie looked at his bandaged hand.

"So I see. Well, you're in luck, John, it's pretty quiet right now, so you get your pick. Who'd you like?"

"I don't care."

"Alright, then I'll see who volunteers." She lifted her eyebrows. "Go ahead into three, I'll send someone in."

When he was out of range, Dixie turned to Roy. "You have a preference?"

"Dr. Early," Roy said easily. "I don't think Johnny's up to handling Dr. Brackett real well right now."

Dixie smiled. "I won't tell Kelly you said that," she promised, and left to get the older physician out of the lounge. She returned, the doctor went into treatment room three and Dixie took her position back on her stool behind the counter.

"I'm guessing from your lack of surprise, that Dr. Early told you we might be back?"

Dixie smiled secretly. "You're not the only one around here who's fond of that pain in the butt you've got for a partner." Roy chuckled. "Self-mutilation is pretty serious, though," she added.

Roy stopped smiling. "He said he cut himself on some glass – "

Dixie's shaking head stopped him from trying to repeat the lie third hand. "Even Joe didn't buy that, Roy. Johnny said it happened on a call? And that he didn't notice it until he got back to the station?" Roy nodded. "Well, even assuming Johnny were oblivious to it, can you imagine him walking into this place and getting out again without anyone else here noticing it? And letting him leave without it being treated?"

Man, Roy thought, _that woman's intuition thing must be good! _

"Besides, if all that were true, he would have let Joe look at it this morning, if for no other reason than so he wouldn't risk being pulled from duty. – So, is this related to the Carpenter fiasco?"

"Fiasco?" Roy repeated. "Why, have you heard something about the second autopsy?"

"No," Dixie shook her head and glanced absently at the paperwork she was ignoring in front of her. "But it has to be wearing on you guys, waiting for the other shoe to drop."

"Well, it could have been worse. It could have gone directly to a board of inquiry and we could be sitting on administrative leave right now."

"This way, it could just go directly to a charge of murder," Dixie countered. Roy glowered.

"Aren't you supposed to be the optimist?"

She shook her head again. "Realist," she said calmly.

It took about ten minutes for Joe Early to finish with Johnny and return, looking very satisfied, with a freshly bandaged and stoic patient behind him.

"You know, he's really very cooperative once he's bound and gagged," the physician joked to the waiting nurse and paramedic. Johnny barely seemed aware of their humor at his expense.

"Yeah, I know. Ready?"

"Yeah."

They walked silently to the squad car and Roy shot him a glance once they were inside. "That wasn't so bad, was it?" he tried. Johnny looked at him impassively, then picked up the mike.

"Squad 51 available"

It was nearly lunch time when they returned, and three out of four hungry, bored firemen were engaged in a game of M&M poker, with Chet obviously winning. Marco Lopez was preparing quesadillas, and the smell was wonderful. Growling stomachs, however, demanded immediate fulfillment, especially in their line of work, so half the winnings around the table were being eaten as fast as they were won.

"Hey, Johnny," Chet called as they walked in, "you still owe me a handful of M&Ms."

Johnny poured himself a glass of milk and looked as if he weren't going to bother answering Chet's challenge. Then, shooting a look at Roy first, he said, "You're right."

"Well, Chet's wiped me out, anyway," the captain said, putting his hand face down on the table, and gobbling the last three candies in his pile. "And I've got paperwork to finish." He vacated his chair and Johnny took it. "Speaking of which," he said, "Stoker, HQ spit yours back. They said they thought you'd changed insurance this past year?"

Stoker munched on a couple M&Ms and said, "Right, I forgot. I'll get that for you next shift."

"And John, I haven't sent yours in yet, `cause I've still got a blank on it. You can put down Henry if you want to, but give me a name and number to call if you end up in the Big Firestation in the Sky, will you? I don't think the county wants to foot the bill for your funeral."

"If Johnny's still fighting fires after he dies, Cap, I don't think he'll have ended up in the sky, know what I mean?" Chet said, pointing downward to emphasize his meaning.

"Just shut up and deal," Johnny said. Then, over his shoulder, he added, "I'll get it for you next shift, Cap'n."

The captain mumbled and left.

Roy wasn't a particularly avid poker player, but he sat at the table with the others, curious as to what was going through Johnny's less and less decipherable mind.

Chet dealt the first hand, and Johnny, starting with a randomly selected thirty M&Ms, anteed up immediately. He lost the hand and three candies. He ate two, replaced them from the common bag, and took the next hand. He played through, lost again, and finished his milk.

The game continued, with Johnny losing nearly every round to Chet until he was left with only four of his original thirty pieces of candy, and two pieces he'd won and not yet eaten.

"Well, Gage, this is it," Chet announced. Stoker had folded at the end the of the second hand and taken his winnings with him to the couch, where he sat watching an old movie.

"Winner takes all?" Johnny asked. He looked calm for a man about to take a beating from Chet, who was practically drooling in anticipation.

"Winner takes all," he agreed.

As he dealt the hand, Roy asked, "How do you know he isn't cheating?" Then added, quickly, "No offense, Chet."

Johnny looked at him soberly, then assessed his cards. "He doesn't have to. He's a good player."

"Hey, Gage, you on something?" Chet demanded. "That sounded almost like a compliment."

Johnny sighed and sat back in his chair and stretched his legs out under the table. "Just a statement of fact."

For Roy, who'd been watching Johnny lose a lot recently, the final hand of the friendly game seemed unusually tense. Fortunately, it was also mercifully swift. At the end, Johnny put his entire holdings into the substantial pot, and waited.

Chet considered his situation briefly, then said, "I call."

John showed his hand: a straight flush.

Chet groaned and surrendered, then took the three remaining green M&Ms from the pile.

Roy chuckled, and Marco turned from the stove to see Chet's final, embarrassing loss.

"How'd he do that?" Chet asked Roy as he stood and left the table.

Johnny returned most of the M&Ms to the bag, ate a few more, then dealt himself a hand of solitaire.

"Enjoy yourself?" Roy asked quietly.

"Mmhmm," Johnny answered, placing one card on another, and dealing three more.

"Trying to tell me something?"

John glanced up and looked almost innocent. "I'm not that subtle."

"That's true," Roy agreed, and stood from his chair. He was heading to the latrine when he passed the squad and saw, still on the seat inside, the autopsy. And he remembered something he needed to do.

"Hey, Cap'n?"

Stanley was just shy of tearing his hair out, Roy thought, and realized again why he had decided against moving too quickly up the ladder at the station. Some things just weren't worth the extra money. Paperwork was one of them.

"Yeah, Roy?"

"Listen, do you remember off hand – didn't Johnny say he was born in Nebraska?"

Stanley looked puzzled, both by the topic and the question itself. "No, I thought he said Wyoming. Why?"

"I ran into someone the other day," Roy said, hoping to keep his lie oblique enough to qualify for the truth in someone's book. "Anyway, she came from out there, I thought it was a town called Boulderton, or something like that. Anyhow, it struck a chord."

"Well, hold on, just a sec," the captain said, and rummaged through his overflowing In Box, just as Roy had hoped he would. "Here it is," he said. "Right city, wrong state. It is Wyoming."

"Guess there's more than one Boulderton," Roy said, and started to leave.

"Must be. Anything else you want from John's personnel records, or with that do it for now?"

Roy opened his mouth, then shut it, and realized there was no answer to that question. The glint in Hank Stanley's eyes told him that in time for him to avoid putting his foot in his mouth.

"Lunch!" Marco called, to his unequalled relief. Stanley tossed the forms back into the pile and followed Roy into the kitchen.

E!

When the phone rang at 3:15, Johnny jumped and grabbed it before anyone closer could. "Station 51," he said. "John Gage." Roy looked up from the newspaper and realized that the mysterious incoming phone calls were returning now as well. John listened to the caller, mumbled a few monosyllabic responses, then hung up. The only thing informative was the regularity with which the calls came in.

He had missed a call at the same time yesterday, Roy remembered. They had been on a run, and when they had returned, he'd gone to wash up, passing through the dormitory, and noting the message left on Johnny's bunk.

"John, got a call for you at about 3:15. No name. Said to tell you 'status quo' and he'd talk to you later." It was Mike Stoker's handwriting, and his particularly taciturn phrasing.

An hour later, another call came into the station.

"John or Roy?" Chet called. "It's Dixie!"

The paramedics had been working on the oxygen tanks, checking the pressure and cleaning the valves. Johnny made no motion to rise, so Roy did.

"Hey, Dixie, what's up?"

"Hi, Roy, I'm glad it's you," the sultry voice said. "Listen, Kel's got a friend at the county coroner's office. They exhumed the body yesterday and got preliminary results back this morning on the tissue samples."

"And?"

"They're equivocal, but they can't rule out digitalis." Roy felt his world reeling, despite the fact that he knew he should have been prepared for this. "So what happens next?"

"Well, as I said, these are just preliminary results. From what his friend told us, they have a lot more to do before they'd have enough evidence to bring it to the DA."

"How long do they think it'll take?"

"Couple weeks, maybe. The tests they've run so far aren't conclusive, unless they can positively rule out the presence of digitalis. And a lot of things can make those tests unreliable. Mostly, all this means is that it'll be a while before we really know anything. So don't hold your breath over the weekend."

"Thanks, Dixie." He went back to the bay and crouched down next to Johnny. "Friend from the coroner's office said the preliminary tests came back ambiguous. They're gonna have to run some more."

John glanced at him. "You expected that, didn't you?"

Roy sighed. "Yeah. Still, I guess I was hoping..."

"The embalming process wiped out any possibility of a clear negative, Roy."

The senior paramedic reached for his cloth, and grabbed one of the valves from the O2 tanks. "How do you know that?"

Johnny shrugged. "That class I took in forensic pathology a couple summers ago, remember?" he asked. Roy didn't, but that didn't mean anything. Johnny had an insatiable mind, and was almost always taking some class or another, either for academic purposes or just to "expand his horizons". His list of hobbies seemed limitless.

"You think he knew that?"

"Do I think who knew what?"

Roy waited until his partner looked at him. "Do you think Carpenter knew it would take weeks before anything definite would come out, and we'd be left hanging on tender hooks until then?"

Johnny looked away. "I have no idea."

"How's your hand?" Roy asked, realizing he'd hit another dead end.

"Fine." Johnny finished adjusting the pressure gauges and stood up, stretching.

"Did Dr. Early give you anything for the pain?"

"I didn't need anything."

"You want a couple aspirin?"

"It's fine," Johnny repeated firmly. "It doesn't hurt."

"First and second degree burns hurt like hell," Roy said. "I thought you weren't going to lie to me any more."

"Okay," Johnny sighed. "It hurts like hell and I don't want any aspirin." He said the words as if reciting a script. Badly. "Happy?" He left, having completed his task, and went to the break room.

The rest of the evening continued in the same manner. Johnny's aloofness was interpreted by half the crew as sullenness, and not at all by Stoker or the captain, who kept their own counsel when Johnny left the room after dinner.

Roy listened to the complaints for a few minutes, then left, not wanting to be put in the position of interpreting his choleric partner at the moment.

There were no runs for the rest of the evening, which left Roy with more time on his hands to think and ponder and worry and speculate than he wanted. He could only imagine what the long hours were like for Johnny.

By the time they turned in and darkened the dorm, Roy was still wakeful and restless, his normal energy unused and bottled into anxiety. He tossed and turned for about an hour, finally falling into fitful, half-dreaming sleep that was worse than remaining awake would have been.

He woke completely twice, glanced at the small clock near his bunk, and closed his eyes again and went back to the irritated sleep.

At one-thirty, he woke again, out of habit, and waited for his partner to leave. But by one-forty-five, he still hadn't moved. And by two o'clock, Roy was propped on his elbow, staring down at Johnny.

"No call to make this morning?" he whispered. He knew intuitively that Johnny was awake.

"Made it already," Johnny muttered. His bandaged hand lay palm-up on his pillow. It had been re-bandaged.

"You rewrapped your hand."

There was only a second's hesitation. "Yup."

"Why?"

"It was bleeding."

"Why?" Roy demanded again, still whispering quietly.

"Couple of the stitches came out," Johnny explained. He kept his eyes shut and there was no intonation in his words: they were flat.

"How did that happen?"

Another hesitation, then Johnny shrugged. "I was cutting up an apple and the knife slipped."

Roy's stomach knotted. He felt sick. He sat up in bed, Dixie McCall's horrible phrase, self-mutilation, running repeatedly through his head like a bad song.

"I cleaned everything up," Johnny reassured him.

"You want me to look at it in here, with the lights on, or out in the engine bay?"

"I took care of it."

"In here or out there?" Roy repeated firmly. He dragged Johnny's blanket off him and the younger man sat up, reluctantly. There wasn't even anger in his eyes.

"Don't you ever get tired? I took care of it. Go to sleep."

He tried to pull his covers back, but Roy held them in place.

"I'm getting tired of watching you destroy yourself, yeah," he said. "Now come on, before we wake up everyone else."

Johnny followed. He had little choice.

In the engine bay, Roy turned on one set of the fluorescent lights and pulled the trauma kit from the squad, the second time in one day he'd had to use it on his friend. The second time and the same reason.

Johnny didn't have his bandage scissors with him, so he had to wait for Roy to remove the dressings he'd just applied. He didn't so much as grimace when Roy pulled away the dry tape and gauze, but he wouldn't meet the accusing glare either.

Johnny had ignored the Silvadene for the burn and the topical antiseptic to coat the bandages and keep them from adhering to the cuts.

It was almost inconceivable.

Roy pulled out a packet of sterile water and saturated the bandages, wondering how long ago Johnny had done this. Probably hours ago, from the looks of the it. Roy had been sleeping so poorly, he was sure he'd have heard his partner get up for the masochistic phone call. But he'd missed it.

"Looks like you took Dr. Early's dressing off before your started to cut the apple." He looked up. "Just to make sure you wouldn't miss?" he asked angrily.

Johnny said nothing.

"So what are planning to do to yourself on your days off? Maybe I should have the rescue team in your neighborhood on standby?" Johnny said nothing. "Why don't you play with some household poisons? You could probably ingest just the right amount to make you feel like dying without actually killing yourself."

The bandages came away slowly, and Roy sank back on his haunches when he saw what Johnny had "accidentally" done to himself. For a long time, he just stared at the new, gaping wounds, partly cauterized. Then he closed his eyes, envisioning the scene he'd been spared in the kitchen.

What he couldn't envision was anyone but a maniac carrying it out. Especially on himself.

His thoughts and stomach churned violently together, until he thought he was going vomit his own fears and fury if he didn't do something. And at this hour, there was only one thing he could think of to do.

He got up, tossed the scissors on the floor, and left the bay. Johnny didn't follow him immediately: his partner was either in another world entirely – which he'd had to have to have been in to do this to himself – or in shock from pain and trauma. Or both.

Roy grabbed the phone book and flipped through it rapidly, found the number and started to dial it.

The door between the bay and the break room slammed open.

"No, don't!" It was the first sign of emotion Johnny had shown for hours, and even now it was muted, as if dulled by thick layers of numbness.

"And what's he going to tell me if I do?" Roy asked, two digits away from completing the call. "What's he going to tell me about you that can be any worse than the fact that you've turned into someone who can stand there calmly and do this – " he grabbed Johnny's hand roughly, hoping for a sign of pain – "to yourself?"

There was no sign of pain. None.

Roy's voice was too loud, and he knew that, and for once, he didn't care. He almost hoped someone would come out and see this, see the fresh, bloodied bandages on the floor near the squad, see the new gouges, the dark burns on Johnny's hand. He almost hoped someone else would come out so he wouldn't have to deal with this himself.

Johnny yanked his hand free. "Probably that I graduated from cigarette butts."

Roy stared at him, not recognizing the man who stood there. Then he dialed the last two numbers.

Carpenter answered before the second ring. "Hello, little Indian boy."

Roy shut his eyes. The nausea was growing worse by the second. "It's Roy DeSoto," he corrected the man. "Sorry, but I don't think I have any Indian blood."

Johnny turned away, apparently knowing all too well how Carpenter had answered the phone.

"Mr. DeSoto," the man said graciously. "I never did thank you properly for taking time out of your day off to attend my wife's funeral."

"What do you have on Johnny?"

"Roy," his partner pleaded.

"I beg your pardon?"

Roy wanted to make him beg for a few other things! "I said, what do you have on Johnny? What is it he's so afraid someone's going to find out?"

"Roy, please – "

"You'd have to ask him, Mr. DeSoto. I have no idea what you mean."

"Yes, you do. I've overheard him talking to you, Carpenter. So why don't you just enjoy yourself and tell me right now?"

"I assure you, Mr. DeSoto, I really don't know what you're talking about. – Is Johnny there?"

"No."

"May I speak to him, please?"

"I said he isn't here."

Johnny grabbed the phone from him without warning. "I'm here," he said quietly.

Roy listened carefully, but Johnny had the receiver planted firmly against his ear, and Roy couldn't hear a thing from the other end of the phone.

"Call off the hounds," John pleaded quietly. "Call off the hounds!" And after another minute, he looked at Roy and swallowed with difficulty, and clenched his left hand. "Yes. You win," he whispered. "I surrender. – I said, I surrender! Now call off the hounds!"

Roy had heard enough. He grabbed the phone back in time to hear Carpenter's reply.

"– after I have proof of your complete capitulation." Roy warded off Johnny's attempt to retrieve the phone once more. "It's always nice to be able to put an Indian back in his place."

And with that, Carpenter hung up.

Roy was shaking: with fear, with exhaustion, and with rage. Mostly with rage. He had just entered a world he had had no idea existed outside of various bad horror movies. And it not only existed, it had now permeated his world.

He felt like he was on a bad trip from an overdose of something, and that maybe if someone strapped him into a hospital bed and sedated him for a few days, he'd wake up back in his own world. The real world. The world that made sense.

But a look at his partner told him this was the only real world he could hope for until something could be done to stop Carpenter.

Johnny sagged limply against the wall. He closed his eyes and his hand hung loosely at his side. What horrors he was reliving or imagining Roy couldn't begin to guess.

It was the slight shivering that drew him from his own awful thoughts: Johnny's shivering. It started subtly and built quickly, until he was trembling like a man on the edge of hypothermia. But it wasn't hypothermia. It was shock. Physical and emotional shock.

"Johnny!"

Training kicked in. So did adrenaline. Roy grabbed him, supported him back to the bay, and sat him on the rear bumper of the squad. He pulled one of the emergency warming blankets and wrapped it around his friend's shoulders. Then he knelt in front of him and began triaging him as he would any other patient, checking his pulse and his blood pressure, confirming the signs of shock.

He was torn for a moment, almost ready to call in a still alarm on his partner, radio for an ambulance and have him taken to Rampart. Johnny would hardly have been able to comprehend what Roy was doing, much less object.

But after a few minutes, his blood pressure rose and the shivering subsided, and the glassy, vacant look left his eyes. What replaced it wasn't any more reassuring in the long run, but at least it wasn't something that required Roy to wake the entire station.

"No," he said, when Johnny tried to shrug off the blanket. "Keep it on `til we're done here, Junior. You're in your skivvies, remember?" He tried to smile, to deflect the patient's attention. It didn't work, but he didn't argue with Roy either. At last, when Johnny's vital signs had stabilized, Roy breathed more easily, and turned his attention to the mangled hand. The man he loved more than a brother was in hell. And he was trying to put the fire out alone, while the devil laughed and fanned the flames.


	3. Chapter 3

**Three Little Indians**  
(Book I in The Firedance Trilogy)  
~ Part 3 of 7 ~  
Copyright © September 2002; January 2010 by Hunter E. Black

Genre: SLASH  
Pairing: Johnny Gage/Roy DeSoto; John Gage/Other  
Rated: R (Graphic violence, sexual situations, mature themes)  
Content Warning: First time slash (build-up only in Book I); rape; graphic violence; adult situations.

Author's Disclaimers: This story is written for pleasure and is not intended to violate any preexisting copyrights. You may download a copy for your personal use, but not for profit. This story is a work of the writer's imagination. All characters and incidents in this story are products of the writer's imagination and/or based upon the TV series, Emergency! Any relation to any persons living or dead is really a stretch, if you ask me!

Author's Note: Neither the title of this story nor any reference to "Indians" in the text is intended to offend any Native Americans of any tribe. The author, being part Native American -- and proud of it -- grew up when the term Indian was widely used and not considered demeaning, or pejorative. However, the term is used in that way by one character in the story, and the author sincerely hopes he is well-hated.  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

~ Continued from Part Two. ~

Day three of the three-day shift. Roy DeSoto prayed for boredom. He was too tired even to be tormented by his own thoughts. He called Joanne in the morning, just to check in with her and to verify that the world he'd left behind two days ago still existed, that it wasn't that world that was a dream. They talked for only a minute: she was on her way out to get groceries, and he just needed the reassurance of her presence waiting for him when he got off duty in twenty-four hours.

"I love you," he told her, with maybe more meaning in the words than he'd put into them for quite a while.

"I love you too, dear. Say hi to the crew. Give Johnny my love. – Tell me all about it tomorrow."

She knew. Somehow, she knew.

Maybe that's what it was with Johnny, Roy thought: the knowing. Knowing for almost two weeks, now, but not really understanding it or fully grasping how bad it was. Knowing and being helpless. Knowing and being kept at arm's length.

Knowing his partner was fighting a battle he couldn't possibly win, and knowing Roy couldn't help.

"Joanne sends her love," he said, mostly to Johnny, but including everyone within earshot.

Johnny looked up from his breakfast, mostly toyed with, rather than eaten. It was all the acknowledgement he could make. His face was flushed with fever, and Roy knew that bringing up the subject of taking aspirin again was a waste of time, so he didn't bother. At least the fever showed that Johnny's immune system still had some fight left in it.

After breakfast, each of the men each went to their chores.

Roy had half-expected the Captain to put Johnny on latrine duty, but he was openly concerned about Johnny at roll call, and assigned him to the break room again, one of the few areas that required little more than tidying and dusting.

No one – most notably Chet – had questioned the decision or complained, and when the Captain asked Roy to stay behind after roll call, he'd discovered why.

"Look, if you and Johnny are planning any more lengthy discussions in the middle of the night, you might want to take them out to the break room before they begin," he advised.

Roy winced. "Right, Captain, sorry." He started to leave, but the man hadn't finished.

"Just out of curiosity," he started, "how the hell do you manage to accidentally cut yourself through several layers of gauze and tape?"

"I guess the, uh, knife must have slid under the tape," Roy suggested, using his finger and sliding it parallel to his palm to demonstrate.

"While cutting an apple?"

"I guess."

"Mmhmm." Translation: _Remember that ocean-front property in Nevada?_

"Did everyone – ?"

"So far, only Chet's asked about it. I gotta tell you, Roy, if this doesn't improve pretty fast, I'm going to have to pull John off duty. _Chet_ is worried about him!" Roy felt his stomach contents churn and left to get breakfast started.

Now, as the morning began to tick by without a run, he finished cleaning the kitchen, watched Johnny moving on automatic through his tasks in the break room, and then slumped in the easy chair when he was done. He put his head back, fully prepared to take a nap, assuming the Klaxons remained silent.

They did. So did he.

It wasn't quite the restful experience he'd hoped for: disjointed images of bloody apples and scalding coffee and a dead woman scratched through his dreams, all of them overshadowed by the sadistic grin on Carpenter's face after his wife's funeral; the look of hatred that had passed between him and Johnny in the hospital; and the memory of one child who had stood dry-eyed and mute while Roy and Johnny had tried to save his mother's life. That same child riding with Johnny in the Land Rover to the cemetery to bury the woman they hadn't saved.

"Hey, sleeping beauty, you want lunch?"

Chet's gentle sarcasm pulled him from the sleep-induced images and he woke with a crick in his neck, surprised to realize he'd actually fallen asleep.

He rubbed his eyes and saw the rest of the team gathering eagerly for more food. Hadn't he just had breakfast?

"Guess I dozed off," he apologized, feeling a bit silly.

"Dozed off like a bull dozer," Marco shot back. "Boy, can you snore!"

It was a welcome jibe and everyone seemed amused. Everyone but Johnny, who wasn't there, Roy realized.

"I'll go get Johnny," he offered, struggling up from the chair with rubber limbs.

"Don't bother, he bowed out," Chet informed him, with a look just strong enough and long enough to confirm what the Captain had said this morning: Kelly was worried.

"You guys go ahead and start, I gotta visit the head."

"Well, okay, but it's Sloppy Joes, so you'd better get back fast or all you'll get is a bun."

Roy waved a quick acknowledgement of the warning as he left and headed through the bay, expecting to find Johnny. He didn't, but he did need to use the latrine, so he continued on.

When he returned to the bay it was still was empty, and so was the Captain's office, leaving only the rear parking lot. Johnny was hunched down on the ground in the same corner he'd occupied a few nights ago. Roy dropped down next to him: watched his partner stare into the lot without reacting to his presence.

"The regular ingestion of food and drink are highly recommended if you want to keep standing," he said gently, remembering that Johnny had barely eaten anything this morning.

Johnny shook his head. "It won't stay down." Roy knew the feeling, but he also knew Johnny wasn't going to make it through the day if he didn't get some food.

"Come on, Junior, you can stick to the bun. And then take a couple aspirin for that fever. You don't want to drop if we get a run."

Johnny stayed where he was for another few seconds. Then he turned and looked at Roy, his eyes glistening with fever. He spoke slowly, distantly, his voice very low.

"Did you ever make a decision you knew you'd regret for the rest of your life?"

The question wasn't at all what Roy had expected, but it sounded like an opening he didn't want to pass up.

"No. Made a few I did regret, but I didn't know I was going to when I made them."

Johnny contemplated the parking lot, or whatever vision filled his mind as he stared blindly into the open space. "I did," he said. "At the time, I thought I'd rather be dead! But I did it anyway."

_Rampart, the patient appears to be catatonic... _

Roy swallowed. "Did what?"

"The worst thing is," Johnny said, his eyes glassy, "I learned I could live with it. Make excuses. Justify myself. Finally, even got to the point where it didn't make me sick to look in the mirror any more." He wrapped his right hand around his left, both of them circling his knees. And he pressed down hard on his left palm, grinding his fingers into his self-inflicted injuries.

"Johnny."

"I turned myself from a villain into a hero. That's a pretty good trick, wouldn't you say?"

"Johnny!" He reached out and separated his friend's hands, held them firmly apart and tried to get Johnny to focus on him. "What could you possibly have done that would have been so bad?"

After a few seconds, Johnny pulled his right hand free of Roy's grip and rubbed his face, and his eyes lost their distant, delirious look. He released his left hand, as if just realizing it was still being held, and took a deep breath. When he met Roy's eyes, it was obvious the feverish confession wasn't going to be completed. Not yet.

"Bought that Land Rover," he said. He dragged himself to his feet and said, "Isn't it time for lunch?"

After lunch, his morning prayer having been inexplicably heard, Roy began to pray again, this time for a run. A milk run, after which he and Johnny could restock their supplies at Rampart and someone there would see Johnny and slap him onto a stretcher and take him to a well-supplied hospital room for a few days to recuperate, without any sharp objects or burning implements within reach. Maybe, Roy even thought, if he played his cards right, someone would decide to do the same for him!

What he got instead was a 4.1 on the Richter scale. What kept it from being a greater disaster than it could have been was the fact that the epicenter was in a relatively unpopulated zone, and only minor injuries resulted, though there were dozens of them.

The county rescue services all earned their keep that afternoon, extracting people from their houses, bandaging and caring for contusions and concussions, even locating pets who had gone astray in the panic and confusion of the mild quake. Less of a quake, really, for those who lived in LA: more like a quiver. But it was a quiver that caused physical destruction and a lot of work. There were several neighborhoods that lost electricity and power, and more than a handful of gas lines that had to be shut off for several days.

All in all, the afternoon's activity more than made up for the restful morning, as if everyone had simply stayed home that day to wait for the real disaster.

By the time the station team returned to their haven, having waited nearly an hour to pick up pizzas for their late supper, it was close to eight o'clock.

Roy wasn't sure how he had managed it this afternoon: but what astonished him was that Johnny had. Somehow, Johnny had performed four separate rescues with Roy, irrigated a dozen eyes, bandaged almost forty cuts and abrasions, stabilized a pregnant woman whose china cabinet had fallen on her and broken her leg, extricated seven people from their cars, and accompanied the ambulances to Rampart and back four times.

Not once during the melee had there been the slightest chance for anyone at Rampart to assist Johnny, or probably, by then, even to notice how haggard and badly off he was: everyone else was in the same condition by then.

"Guess we did some good out there today, huh?" Roy asked, as he backed the squad into the bay and turned off the motor. He turned to his partner, now just leaning back against the seat, eyes open, staring at the windshield.

"Hmm."

"Let's get some food and hit the sack."

Johnny accommodated by sitting and eating a slice of pizza and drinking three glasses of milk. Since they were all ragged and exhausted, no one found it odd that he excused himself as soon as he was done, and hit the showers before heading for bed. The others, in fact, quickly followed suit.

Roy called his house, knowing from the reports they'd gotten throughout the day that his area had been spared anything but mild tremors, but anxious to talk with his wife nonetheless. He wanted to reassure her, as well, that he and the rest of the guys had all made it out fine.

"Any change?" she asked, as they neared their good-byes. He knew what she meant.

"Not in the right direction. Tell you all about it tomorrow."

"In detail," she admonished.

He helped clear the plates and pizza boxes, and shut off the kitchen lights.

"Good shift, fellas," Hank complimented them, just before he hit the switch to throw the lights.

"Thanks, Cap," came mumbled responses. Except from Marco's bed: he was already asleep.

"Well, no one died, today," Roy added, sitting on the edge of his bed. "Cap, hold off a second, will you." He stared at his partner's hand. "That needs to be rewrapped."

Johnny had just sat down on the bunk, and he stared at Roy, almost as if he weren't sure what his partner was talking about. Then he glanced at his hand.

"Forgot about it," he mumbled. The bandages were filthy, encrusted with grime and soot and oil and blood - this time, other people's - and no matter how tired the rest of his crew mates were, everyone there knew enough first aid to know it had to be done.

It was, Roy figured, better to keep the lights on a little longer than to wake them in the middle of the night. Hopefully, tonight's wrapping would stay in place through any prowling Johnny decided to due in the wee hours of the morning.

"Yeah, go take care of that now, John," the Captain ordered.

The rest of them flung themselves into their bunks. "I'm turning the lights out in five minutes. If you're longer than that, tiptoe!"

"Right, Cap!" Roy called back.

The bandages were a mess, but Johnny had kept them and his wounds dry by wrapping his hand in a plastic bag during his shower. It took Roy a few minutes to get the dressings off, and he took his time, more interested in making sure the wounds were clean and healing than in making it back to the dorm before darkness fell.

"How's it feel?"

"Hurts like hell, and I don't need any aspirin," Johnny recited.

"The aspirin's for the fever," Roy insisted, "not the pain. So you'll take them, right?"

Johnny didn't answer.

Roy looked in his partner's eyes and saw the return to nothingness. It had disappeared briefly, in the heat and frantic activity of the earthquake, as it had yesterday morning in front of the donut shop. But it was back now, with a hollow vengeance, and the feverish glint to his eyes was just beginning to return as well.

The wounds looked bad. Two of the newly-inflicted injuries showed puss and swelling; the burns looked angry. It wasn't enough to cause a lot of concern, but certainly the level of activity Johnny had immersed himself in this afternoon hadn't been helpful.

"Doesn't look so good, Junior," he muttered, and began cleaning the wounds again, removing traces of soot and grime that had worked their way through the bandages. "You're going to need an antibiotic."

"I'll get one tomorrow."

"When?" Roy demanded. Their shift ended at eight in the morning, and after that he would lose all control over Johnny's physical well-being.

The young man shrugged. "Right after the shift ends, okay?"

"Okay." He busied himself with the bandages for a while, then asked quietly, "You going to call him?"

Johnny shook his head. "No need to."

And Roy's stomach dropped.

Johnny helped him clean up when they had finished, then shut out the lights and they went back to the dorm. Even the Captain, who didn't normally snore, was doing so tonight, Roy realized. They were all wiped out.

Johnny fell asleep fast, and Roy wasn't far behind him.

E!

The Klaxons held off until six o'clock the next morning, by which time the crew had had nearly eight hours of sleep. The uninterrupted night was a gift.

The engine was called out on a run to another brush fire, and Roy struggled from the bed, realizing the last half-hour wasn't worth trying to sleep through. B-shift tended to arrive early anyway, and he was feeling about as good as he would until he had a chance to see Joanne and the kids and relax in his own bed. Or, more likely, collapse on the couch with the kids crawling around and over and under him, and sleep in the arms of his family.

Johnny had woken with the alarms, as well, and he sat on the edge of his bunk for a few minutes.

"Shift's almost over," Roy said quietly.

Johnny glanced at him, then looked at his hand: it was the first time he'd paid any attention to it himself. The fingers were swollen, and he flexed them tentatively.

"Don't forget to stop by Rampart."

Johnny muttered something, then pulled on his gear and hobbled tiredly to the latrine.

When the engine returned, there was fresh coffee and Roy had scrambled up a batch of eggs and put toast in the oven to keep it warm. Johnny cooked bacon, just to add to the temptation, and to grate on anyone from B-shift who'd had to settle for cold cereal at home.

After breakfast, Roy went to the squad to get it ready for the turn-over to the next shift. Johnny disappeared briefly into the Captain's office, then came back and finished the preparations with Roy.

Once Brad Singer and Mark Demsey arrived and they had finished the changeover routine, Roy and Johnny went to the lockers and started changing into their civvies, the last but the Captain to leave.

"Time for the truth, Junior."

Johnny stood staring into his locker, his expression, not to mention his body, hidden behind Smoky the Bear as he began unbuttoning his paramedic shirt.

"What truth?" he asked, apparently resigned.

"About Carpenter. And his wife. And what he's doing to you. So we can stop him."

The paramedic sighed and was quiet for some minutes. "Alright, how `bout this: We're all part of a secret FBI operation, except for Carpenter, who's a double agent."

He'd been working on that one for a while, Roy could tell. "Too late for jokes, Johnny."

"Fine." He pulled off his uniform shirt and grabbed his plaid shirt from the locker. "Then come up with your own truth, Roy, `cause at this point, there isn't anything I could say that you'd believe."

Johnny sat on the bench and pulled off his uniform shoes. He put them neatly in his locker.

"Alright, then, I'll tell you a piece of the truth I've figured out," Roy offered carefully.

Johnny didn't say anything.

"`Til yesterday, I figured that you and Jenny Carpenter were – well, maybe old flames. Probably serious about each other at some point. Long enough ago, maybe, that – well, after she'd had five kids and all, you didn't recognize her at first. And maybe Carpenter came along and broke you two up. Figured that's why you hated each other and why you cared so much about what happened to Jenny, even carried her casket to the grave."

Johnny had pulled on his sneakers and was tying them, still silent, still faceless behind the metal door.

"Then I noticed something. Jenny Carpenter was born on August 28, 1946, in Boulderton, Wyoming. Same date as you: same place as you. And while that might have been a coincidence, I remembered something else, too. You shut down when we pulled Lisa's twin sister from the car:" He waited, but there was no response.

"Jenny wasn't an old flame, was she, Johnny?"

"No."

Roy was so shocked to hear him admit anything that, for a moment, he was speechless. That gave Johnny the time he needed. He got up from the bench, tucked his shirt into his jeans, and pulled his wallet and keys from the locker. He pushed the door out of the way and looked at Roy, his eyes empty and lifeless again.

"Who've you told?"

Roy shook his head. "No one, yet."

"Keep it that way."

"Johnny --"

"Roy," he interrupted, "you said I could talk to you or the Captain. Well, I talked to the Captain. You don't have to worry about me anymore. I resigned."

"You what?"

Johnny looked tired. He looked as if he could barely stand up! But that was all that showed on his face: just exhaustion.

"It's over now," he said, his voice still flat-lining. "No board of inquiry, no lawsuits, no murder charges. Nothing. So keep the information about Jenny to yourself."

"Johnny!" Roy grabbed his arm as he started to leave.

Johnny pulled away, just forcefully enough to break the hold, but not enough to show any real anger. "You were right, Roy. You can't be a good paramedic when you shut down. And you know what? I don't care. I really don't care." He chuckled joylessly. "I don't care about this job, or being a paramedic, or being a firefighter, or anything. I don't – care."

He glanced at his hand then looked back. "Do you know why I did that?" he asked, holding out the bandaged limb. "So I'd be able to feel something until this damned shift ended. So at least I'd know whether I was still alive! So I'd remember that the rest of the world does still feel something!" He took a deep breath. "Well, it got me through the shift. That's all I needed."

Roy studied his friend – his best friend, next to Joanne – and remembered the poker game two days before. The way he'd casually lost almost every hand, not playing any strategy, accepting whatever hand was dealt him and losing repeatedly.

And then, at the end, having obviously set it up to win one very large, final pot.

"You had this planned," Roy whispered.

"It's time for you to get a new partner, Roy. Taking care of me out there every day was putting you in a rut. I just hope they don't stick you with Brice until they find you someone permanent."

"This isn't a winning hand, Johnny," Roy tried desperately.

He could see, now, beneath the exhaustion, a certain determination, and Johnny's jaw was set firmly. He had been considering this longer than this shift, Roy realized. But thinking about it without thinking it through.

"If you resign, Carpenter wins."

John snickered. "Carpenter won years ago, Roy. This way, no one else gets hurt, not this time." He sighed tiredly and ran his hand over his eyes. He pulled out his keys and separated the Land Rover's. "That's as close to a win as I can hope for." Then he glanced back at Roy one last time and left without another word.

"`For personal and professional reasons, I am tendering my resignation from the LACoFD as a firefighter/paramedic. If needed, I am available for the next two weeks for shift assignments. Alternately, you may consider my termination as of this date. All county equipment and uniforms in my possession - etc., etc., etc...'" Captain Stanley looked up from the letter and faced Roy, seated across from him in the office. "That's the gist of it. The rest is about returning keys and filling out the paperwork. That sort of thing."

"That's all he said?" Roy asked numbly. The Captain handed the letter across the desk. Roy looked at Johnny's neatly handwritten letter. He had composed it with care, not hastily in the middle of the night. He had planned this. And Roy tried to think back, tried to think when, exactly, Johnny had decided to capitulate.

Not two nights ago, though that may have been when Johnny realized he'd been dealt his final hand. That wasn't when he'd planned his resignation.

Roy studied the letter a little more carefully, consciously looking for clues now, and he found one. The date was written in a black pen, as was the rest of the letter: but it was clearly a different pen, and it was the only part of the letter where his handwriting looked hasty, the way it did in his field logs or MICUs. It didn't tell him when Johnny had planned this stupid move, but it did tell Roy he'd planned it some time ago and had just waited for the right time to fill in the date.

"You accepted it?"

The Captain shrugged and took the letter back. "Well, as far as he's concerned, I guess I did. But the funny thing is," the Captain said, leaning forward, "I'd been thinking earlier this shift that it might be a good idea for you and Johnny to have some time away from the station. So I signed you two up for a training course out in San Diego next week. Problem is," he said, scowling through the papers on his desk, which was looking more and more chaotic, "I guess after I cleared it with HQ, I misplaced the paperwork for the course itself and forgot to send it in time. So," he continued, "we've got two paramedics in to cover for you guys next week, and as far as HQ is concerned, you're in training. Guess the county's gonna have to eat the cost."

Roy grinned slowly as the realization of how devious Captain Hank Stanley could be sank in. "You sure about this?"

He crossed his hands behind his head and leaned back, elbows out like radar on either side of his face. "Well, you know the saying, `No good deed goes unpunished'. We've got Brice and Powers filling in for you."

Roy grimaced. "Johnny's letter is dated today," he protested, realizing there was a hole in the plan.

"Yup," Stanley agreed. "And he gave me two weeks' notice. It's too late to cancel your `attendance' at the class next week. Maybe I'll need him back on duty for another shift until we hear something on the autopsy." He folded the paper and put it in his top desk drawer. "I don't have to act on this for a while, Roy. So see what you can do with him."

Gratitude welled up in Roy's chest. But all he said was, "Thanks, Cap. I owe you one."

"A big one, once the chief sees the bill for the class you two never took." The grin on his face dissolved into a paranoid grimace. "Deal with that when it comes up, Hank," he muttered to himself, and dove back into his paperwork.

As Roy stood to leave, the man yanked a stapled stack of papers from the littered desk and handed it to him. "Oh, you left that in the squad. I assume you're in the process of memorizing it, so here."

Roy took the autopsy report. Jenny Carpenter's place of birth was one of the first things the Captain would have seen on the sheet.

"And just to save you some trouble," the man added, starting to organize his papers, "I already checked. None of Johnny's personnel or medical records mentions any siblings." He looked back at Roy for a moment. "In fact, in a couple places he specifies none."

And with that final mystery to work on, Roy ended his shift.

E!

After two hours of filling Joanne in on all that had happened – leaving out the grisly details of Johnny's newly discovered masochism – Roy began making phone calls. First, to Joanne's sister and brother-in-law, which necessitated a brief follow-up discussion between Joanne and her sister.

"No, it's just the guys this time," she told her sister, while Roy checked out Chris' latest artwork, left behind for his father's perusal when he went to school. "No, you idiot, there's nothing wrong between Roy and me! Besides, he's got six days in a row home next week! I'm sure we'll figure out some way to make a vacation out of it." She winked at Roy.

Once Joanne's sister was reassured that neither the stress of Roy's work nor the fact that Joanne hadn't heard from him until after the earthquake hadn't caused a rift in their marriage, Roy called Rampart. He was lucky: Dixie was still there.

"Did he come in?"

"Johnny? Yeah, he came in." The tone in her voice was hardly reassuring.

"Who saw him?"

"Kel."

Roy grimaced. "He give him an antibiotic?"

"What he wanted to give him was a one-way trip to the psych ward! – Roy, you know this is getting out of hand."

"Well, I'm taking it in hand this weekend. Listen, could you do me a favor?" He couldn't think of anyone else at Rampart he'd have trusted with the request, and he knew Dixie would accede to it: she was that kind of a woman, that kind of a nurse, that kind of a human being. It was comforting to know such people still inhabited his world.

He called Captain Stanley at home, chatted briefly and politely with his wife, then explained his plans to Hank. For some reason, whether instinct that he should listen to or paranoia that he shouldn't, he left instructions for him, asking him to carry them out. Just in case.

"Thought you just said fishing?" the Captain protested.

"I did. I just - don't know what I'm going to catch."

"Well, good luck, pal. I'm glad it's not me."

Then Roy packed his bags, checked the time, and loaded his car.

"Call when you get to Lucky's Corner," Joanne reminded him.

"I will." They kissed, a nice, long kiss, long enough to make Roy reconsider leaving so soon. Joanne must have felt his doubt – or something else – rising, because she finally pushed him back and chuckled.

"If you don't get going, you might not get the chance," she reminded him. Her eyes sparkled and she kissed him once more, lightly, then pushed him toward his car. "Drive carefully."

He headed down the highway, stopped first at Rampart and thanked Dixie for her discreet help, giving her a familial peck on the cheek as he headed away.

"You get that boy shaped up this weekend!" she admonished him, using her best big sister routine. "And take care of yourself, while you're at it."

"Yes, ma'am." Roy grinned and left.

And faced his next battle.

Johnny didn't answer the door when he knocked, but the Land Rover was in the parking lot, and he knew Johnny was too tired to be out running. He knocked again, waited, and heard the door across the hall open.

"Oh, sorry, I couldn't tell if you were knocking on my door," an older woman apologized, and Roy grinned at her, wondering when she had moved in. She obviously just wanted a look at Johnny's guest.

He knocked a third time and finally heard movement inside. It was likely Johnny had gone straight to bed. Given that luxury, Roy might have, as well. But unlike Johnny, who considered himself unemployed at the moment, Roy knew that they both still had their jobs, and Roy's job at the moment lay inside this apartment.

"Hope you didn't have any plans for the weekend," he greeted when Johnny finally opened the door. He moved quickly to make sure he got into the apartment without being spied on by the neighbor again. "Cause if you did, you need to cancel them."

"What – Roy!"

Roy had changed into jeans and a flannel shirt over his T-shirt and hiking boots. He smiled at his perplexed host. "We're going away for a couple days," Roy explained. "You and me. Up to that cabin I told you Joanne's sister's got. So let's get you packed."

"Roy!" Johnny snapped.

Roy smiled: so there was a little life left in the old boy after all! He'd caught him off guard and obviously still half-asleep. Or wishing he were. He wore an old pair of faded jeans, the top button undone, and no shirt. His hair was ruffled, his feet were bare, and his eyes were narrowed, as if still trying to wake up.

"Roy, what are you talking about?" he asked, his voice coming back to a normal, wary pitch.

"I'm talking about you and me going away for the next three days to a nice, idyllic, isolated cabin. There's some decent fishing, and barring that, a half-decent convenience store nearby. We're going to do some work on the roof. Aside from that, we're all alone: no telephone, no sirens, no emergencies, no psychopaths, no one dying or needing to be rescued..."

"Right," Johnny grumbled, and stepped back into his apartment reluctantly, obviously realizing Roy wasn't going to leave immediately. "When have we ever gone on a vacation where we didn't need to rescue someone, huh?" he asked. Roy smiled, remembering some of their ill-fated trips.

"Well, none of that is in the game plan this time," Roy reassured him. "This is three days of relaxation. That's it."

Johnny sank heavily on his couch and shook his head. "Can't."

"Why not?"

"Got a job interview."

Roy considered him for a moment and said, "No you don't."

"How would you know?" he snapped.

"Because I know you, partner," Roy said. "So get used to it and get dressed, and let's get packed. It's going to take us about three hours to get there, and it'd be nice to arrive before dark. Let you get the lay of the land."

"I can't," Johnny repeated.

"Try the truth, then." He wasn't sure whether Johnny would take him up on the now-expired deal or not.

"I have calls to make," he said simply.

"Well, you must have Carpenter's number memorized," Roy said bitterly, "so you can just drive down to Lucky's in the middle of the night and talk to him while you listen to the bullfrogs."

"I'm not calling him," Johnny protested, and the vehemence in his words made them believable.

"Who, then?"

"Other contacts," Johnny said.

"Oh, right," Roy said sarcastically, reminded of Johnny's failed attempt at a story that would pass Roy's reality check. "The FBI?" Roy mocked. "Then you should have gotten their cards when they came to see us at the station." He started to pull Johnny from his seat. "Come on, I'll pack you up myself, or you can help me and make sure I don't forget any–"

"Roy, I'm not going!" Johnny yanked his arm away, and stayed firmly planted on the sofa. "Look, I appreciate the offer, but I'm not up for three days of idyllic idleness."

"Idyllic idleness?" Roy repeated, grinning. "Where'd you get that from, one of your outdoor safari classes, or that vocabulary enrichment class?"

"Neither."

"Alright, then, we'll fix the cabin roof, blaze a new trail, maybe you can teach me some tracking skills, okay?"

Johnny looked at him for a moment, then shook his head. "No. Thanks for trying, Roy, but I really do have things to do here."

Roy had argued for as long as he was going to. He grabbed Johnny's left arm and held it out in front of him. "Like this?" he asked impatiently. The new bandages Brackett had wrapped around Johnny's hand had been placed on securely in a figure-8 pattern around the wrist and between the middle two fingers.

Johnny pulled free. "Like looking for another job."

"Give me three days," Roy said, "and you might not need to."

He saw Johnny look hesitant, almost willing to accept his offer.

"No long talk on the drive up, okay? You want to listen to music or just sit and stare out the window, that's fine with me. We'll grab some groceries at Lucky's when we get there, make ourselves an early dinner and hit the sack. I'm beat, I'm sure you are."

He waited, and Johnny glanced at his hand, lying in his lap, useless.

"C'mon, what do you say? Joanne's already made other plans, and I don't want to spend the weekend alone up there, or back at the house, either."

Johnny sighed.

"Where's your camping gear?" Roy asked, knowing the sound of defeat.

"Bedroom closet." Reluctantly, Johnny got off the couch and followed him into the bedroom. "I gotta make a call before we go," he said, and sat on the edge of his bed and dialed a number.

Roy starting pulling the things they'd need from the closet while Johnny waited for someone to pick up the phone.

"I've got a number," he said to the person who answered. "226. 766. 754. 91." Roy turned, curious, but Johnny just looked at him. After a few seconds, he said, "Yeah, it's me. Look, I'm going out of town for a couple days. – Do some fishing with a friend. – No, no phone there."

Roy found Johnny's hiking boots, and the backpack, sleeping bag, and tent all bundled together. He pulled them out, put the tent back, and tossed the boots in the direction of the bed. Silently, still listening, Johnny pointed toward his dresser and gestured until Roy found the right drawer.

"If there is one. – Saturday or Sunday, I guess."

Thermal underwear, compass, first aid kit, all the standard items. Roy pulled them out and handed off the backpack for Johnny to fill the way he wanted.

"Look, what about that other–" He glanced quickly at Roy, then away. "Item?" he whispered. He listened, cradling the phone on his shoulder, while he stuffed his gear into their familiar pockets and pouches. "No, man," he snarled, and stopped packing his things. He seemed to need his hands free to argue with the person on the other side of the conversation. "I said one for _each_ of them! The kids are–"

Looking back, that should have made the hair on the back of Roy's neck stand up. Children? Was something happening with Carpenter's children? If so, what would Johnny have to do with it? It certainly wasn't Carpenter Johnny was talking to.

Johnny hesitated, looking a bit nervously at Roy. Then he went back to stuffing his personal items into his pack and Roy forgot to remember to ask him about that later. Getting Johnny into the car and out of town was the one thing most in Roy's mind right now: everything else could wait.

"Look, one for them, one for her, I said that before. If you can't do that, man, just let me know, and I'll save you the trouble."

"Want me to leave?" Roy whispered, feeling awkward.

Johnny just stared at him, as if he hadn't heard the question. "Okay. Yeah, I'll try to let you know. – Thanks." He didn't bother with good-bye.

"Planning a surprise party or something?" Roy asked casually, locating flashlights, canteens and flares, and handing them off to his partner.

"Something."

"Better be after we get back," Roy said, hefting Johnny's backpack over his own shoulders.

They took additional supplies, because Johnny was right: they almost never had an uneventful trip. Roy grabbed his things from his car, left it locked in Johnny's parking lot, and bundled everything into the Land Rover.

"You drive," Johnny ordered. "Brackett gave me Darvon for the pain. I don't want to risk it."

Roy was happy to oblige: driving the Land Rover made him feel about ten years younger, like a freewheeling bachelor. And since that's how he was going to live this weekend --at least as freewheeling as you could get at the other end of a fishing line! - it was a good way to get used to the experience again.

E!

Johnny slept for most of the drive, probably from the Darvon, Roy thought, though the sudden reduction in adrenaline his body had been pumping for the last three days, if not longer, would probably leave him exhausted for some time to come anyway. It was nearly four when Roy stopped at Lucky's Corner for groceries and to call Joanne.

"I didn't think you'd convince him to go," she confided, when he told her where they were.

"Well, I almost had to hog-tie him and drag him to the car, but he finally decided to walk down on his own." He heard her quiet laugh. "I'll call you sometime tomorrow," he promised. "We'll probably stop back here for more groceries."

"Alright. Love you."

He grabbed enough supplies for the night and through lunch tomorrow, leaving the question of dinner open. If he and Johnny caught anything, they'd cook it up. If not, there was always the possibility of hamburgers or frozen pizza. Or, since they were on there own, both.

When he got back to the car, Johnny was still asleep, hunched with his head cradled between the back of his seat and the window, a very uncomfortable position, as Roy knew from previous trips they'd taken. He started the engine and drove the last five miles to the isolated cabin.

"Okay, sleeping beauty, if you're waiting for me to wake you with a kiss, you've got a long wait coming." He gently nudged his partner when he stopped in front of the rustic building they'd call home for the next two or three days. He had left the possibility of returning Sunday, instead of Saturday, open, depending on how things went.

Johnny crunched his face into a grimace and groaned softly as he woke. He looked around, saw the small, wood-framed house.

"It's not much, but it's homey," Roy explained, getting their groceries out first. Johnny followed, grabbing his gear, and Roy unlocked the front door. He switched on the lights and left the keys on the hook near the door.

The inside was clean and smelled as if someone had recently dusted with lemon-oil. There was a small sofa offset by a coffee table, and two large, overstuffed brown-plaid chairs, along with a rocker and several end tables and lamps in the main room. The room expanded into an eating area, with a table that seated four easily, six with work. Right off that area, was a small, functional kitchen, with recently updated appliances.

"There are two bedrooms," Roy said, "one over there, and one here." He pointed off the main room for the first, then to the second nearer the kitchen. "They both have two twin beds," he explained. "Which do you want?"

Johnny looked at him warily. "Separate rooms? Thought you'd want to keep an eye on me overnight, like you've been doing."

"No, I'll just put all the knives and glassware under lock and key when we go to bed." He smiled and Johnny selected the room nearer to the front door.

"No phone," Johnny said, as if confirming what he'd already been told.

"Nope. Got a TV, but the reception's not great up here."

Johnny sighed and went into the bedroom to put his things away. While Roy began unloading the groceries and double-checking the standard store of supplies Joanne's sister always kept around – and which he had to remember to replenish when they got ready to leave – Johnny went back to the Land Rover, brought in Roy's gear, and put it in his room.

"So what's for dinner?" he asked.

"Figured we'd go gourmet tonight and have franks and beans."

"Good thing we've got separate bedrooms!"

Roy laughed. "If you're hungry, open those cans and I'll get the dogs started."

They did, familiarizing themselves with the kitchen in the process. Roy had bought some decaffeinated coffee and Johnny put enough in the percolator for half a pot and started it simmering on the stove.

"So, Joanne doesn't mind you taking your three days of leave to be up here?"

"Naw, she could tell I've been antsy lately. I think she was probably glad to get rid of me. We've got catsup and relish and mustard in there," he said, gesturing to the refrigerator. Johnny got out the condiments and then tended to the beans on the stove.

"So, how far are we from civilization?" Johnny asked, leaning against the counter near the stove and crossing his arms over his chest.

"Five miles, if you consider Lucky's civilized, about 100 if you don't."

Johnny almost smiled.

They ate a quiet dinner, watched a snow-laden TV screen for the evening news, and Johnny took another Darvon for the pain. They cleaned up after their meal, and Roy could see the Darvon kicking in, so he suggested an early night, and the possibility of a fishing expedition in the early morning.

"Fine," Johnny agreed, and said good-night.

Five minutes later, Roy peeked through the open door to his partner's room: he had fallen asleep fully clothed, on top of the bedspread.

He took the coffee off the stove, shut off the lights, and followed his friend's example.

E!

When Roy woke next, it was late morning, according to the light in his room, and he woke to the smell of bacon and biscuits and coffee. He stretched, smiled, and then remembered it wasn't Joanne out there in the kitchen, but Johnny. He checked his watch, and grimaced at how late it was. He rolled out of bed, pulled on his jeans and a T-shirt, and went to see how Johnny was doing.

"Now who's the sleeping beauty?" his partner asked, as Roy squinted against the brighter sun in the main room. Johnny had opened the blinds and curtains and the room was awash in light.

"Thought we were going fishing this morning," Roy muttered, staggering toward the coffee.

"Don't think I didn't try. I've been trying to get you up since four. 'Round six, I gave up and figured you were either unconscious or dead."

Roy yawned and poured coffee into a mug, then turned to face Johnny, who stood scrambling eggs in a frying pan. "And if I was dead?"

"I'd bury the body," Johnny answered casually, as he served two plates of eggs, then put bacon on each one. "After I had breakfast. Figured if this didn't bring you out of a coma, I'd start digging."

Roy carried the plates to the table and returned for his coffee. "There biscuits? Smells like biscuits."

"Oh! Yeah." Johnny pulled them from the oven and plopped two on each of their plates.

For a few minutes, they ate in silence, and Roy had to remember to slow himself down: there would be no Klaxons interrupting this meal.

"So, did you sleep okay?"

"Fine, yeah, thanks."

Roy buttered a biscuit, ate for a few more minutes, then asked, "So, all this – losing your job and the possible murder charges, and the late-night phone calls, and all the rest – all that was just to keep anyone from finding out you had a twin sister?"

Johnny stopped chewing his food for a second, and looked at Roy. When he swallowed, it was as if all his muscles had tightened to prevent him from doing so. "Isn't a bit early for this? I mean, we haven't even had coffee yet!"

Roy shrugged. "It just doesn't make sense."

Johnny considered his remark then sighed and put his fork down. He took a swig of coffee and answered while staring at his bacon. "Her name wasn't really Jenny."

"Let me guess. It was Lisa." Johnny's eyes shot up and Roy shrugged. "The way you reacted to that little girl at the accident," he explained.

Johnny looked back into his plate of food, as if trying to divine what to say next.

"She took off with Carpenter ten – almost eleven – years ago," he said. His words came out slowly. "They changed their names. We lost them almost immediately. He's real good at covering his tracks," he added bitterly.

He toyed with his eggs, and Roy suddenly regretted not having waited until Johnny had eaten more before launching into the discussion.

"I had no idea they were in LA," he finished.

_... Johnny dropped to one knee... _

_"She's having trouble breathing." He turned on the oxygen and placed a mask over the unconscious woman's face. "What's her name?" _

_"Jenny." _

"You asked what her name was," Roy said. "Why didn't you just call her Lisa when you first saw her?"

John shrugged. "Like I said. I knew she'd changed her name."

"In her condition, she probably would have responded to Lisa anyhow." Johnny just shrugged again. "Okay, so why didn't you tell me when we got to the hospital? I mean, `Hey, that's my twin sister. Haven't seen her in eleven years, not since she ran off with this jerk and changed her name,' hardly sounds like you're revealing a devastating family secret."

He tried to keep it light, but the darkness began to grow in Johnny's eyes. "I had my reasons," he said softly.

"Okay," Roy said, realizing that this line had reached a dead-end. He backed up. "So, how did she meet this psychopath, Carpenter?"

"Who went by a different name when I saw him last," Johnny emphasized. He took a deep breath, and despite the sudden pallor in his face, Roy knew he was going to try to respond to the question. He studied his cold bacon for several minutes, as if looking for the right words in its greasy carcass.

"I can't say."

"Why not?"

Johnny's eyes closed briefly. "I just can't, Roy. Sorry."

"Alright. How did you meet him?"

Johnny shook his head. "Same answer."

_Well, at least he wasn't lying,_ Roy thought. "How about this, then. I can understand why you might hate him – taking off with your sixteen-year-old sister and all. But why did he hate you?"

Johnny turned to him, his face very serious, the muscles in his jaw and around his eyes tightening, his right hand closing into a fist. "Because I'm the one who put him on the run."

"He's a criminal?"

"I'm the one who reported him to the 'appropriate authorities'. He lost his job, and then he fled. And he took Lisa with him." He sighed and added, "He's not the kind of guy you really want angry with you."

As if Roy needed to be told that! He finished his coffee and stood for another cup, giving his friend a moment to recuperate from what was already a very hard discussion. He grabbed Johnny's cup on the way to the kitchen.

"Do you think he killed her?"

"I know he did."

Roy's stomach was twisting. _Then why the hell hadn't he gone to the police? Why was he sitting here now, thinking he'd lost his job, facing the possibility that Carpenter was going to frame him for Jenny's death? Why? _

Roy finished refilling their coffee and came back to the table, glad he'd been able to distance himself before he spoke again. "How do you know?"

Johnny shrugged. "He's that kind of guy."

"Has he killed before?" Johnny nodded. "Never got caught?"

"Never even got suspected," Johnny clarified.

"So, what is he, Mafia? Is that why the FBI is interested in him?"

Johnny shook his head. "Freelance psychopath," he said. Then he tried to grin. "Got that from the forensics class."

Roy returned the favor and sipped the coffee. "Okay, so when we got to his house, you got a jolt. You realized it was your sister on the floor and you knew her husband was a murderer. Then we work on her and get her stabilized and transport her to Rampart, where she dies. And that's not a good time to bring up this guy's record?"

"He doesn't have a record! Look, I turned him in eleven years ago. He's still free, he's still crazy, and now he's got five little kids to take care of. He recognized me the moment he saw me," he snapped, his teeth grinding each word as it came out. "What do you think would have happened if I'd decided to tell Brackett or you or anyone else there that I thought I knew this guy, and I thought he'd just killed his wife, but I had no proof, I couldn't explain what I knew, and I hadn't seen the guy in eleven years?"

"I don't see that it would have been any worse than what did happen."

"Except that I'd've been put right into a straitjacket. And if the police did take me seriously, Carpenter would have taken off long before they could get enough information to justify a warrant. – Just like the last time."

"So instead you let him play with your head for two weeks before he decided how to get even with you," Roy pointed out. Johnny snickered.

"He knew what he wanted from me the minute he saw me."

"To cost you your job?"

Johnny looked steadily at him. "Among other things." He took a swig of coffee. "He's dangerous. I don't want anything to happen to those kids because I say too much too soon."

_"Carpenter won years ago, Roy. This way, no one else gets hurt, not this time." _

Roy heard Johnny's final words in the locker room, and began to wonder how much had happened eleven years ago that he still wasn't saying.

"Look, it's still pretty cool outside," Johnny said, pushing his plate away. Most of the food was still on it. "I think I'll go take a look around."

"Okay," Roy agreed. Johnny had reached his limit for the morning, and Roy wasn't going to push: they had time, and what he was after wouldn't come by putting Johnny back on the defensive. He'd been there too much recently. "You want to enjoy some idyllic idleness this afternoon, or work on the roof?"

"Work on the roof," Johnny decided, but as Roy glanced at the bandaged hand, he wondered how much Johnny was going to be able to do. The back of his hand was puffy and pink, and two fingers were a bit swollen.

"Don't forget the antibiotic," Roy reminded him, clearing their plates.

"Right."

Johnny went into his bedroom and emerged a moment later in his hiking gear. He filled his canteen at the sink and slung it over his shoulder. "I'll be back for lunch," he said, and left. He took the keys from the hook near the door, and Roy heard the Land Rover start up and pull out.

Roy cleaned up from breakfast and gathered the tools and supplies they'd need for the afternoon. He had been working on the roof for the last few months, sometimes with his son, sometimes with his brother-in-law, and everything they needed was in the utility closet behind the kitchen. Once he'd checked that he still had what he needed, he went to his bedroom and unpacked the supply kit Dixie had generously made up for him. In addition to the standard first-aid equipment, she had put in a few extras Roy might need, along with a hastily scrawled note: "You owe me a big one!" and her home phone number. All, just in case.

Roy didn't like living in a world with irrational people who did crazy, barbaric things to others for fun. But since he had one of those people on his doorstep, so to speak, he wasn't going to take any chances.

By noon, there was no sign of Johnny. Roy made himself a sandwich and began choosing options for dinner. After he'd eaten, he enjoyed the luxury of a post-luncheon nap, and woke at about three.

Still, Johnny had not returned.

By three-thirty, Roy's internal alarms were going off.

Strong alarms!

At three-forty, Johnny walked back in the door, smiling sheepishly. "Sorry," he apologized. "I got lost. I brought a peace offering?" He held up two very large fish, dangling from the ends of their lines.

Roy surveyed him quickly, working on adrenaline, now, and his training took over. His initial, visual assessment revealed nothing wrong. Except, of course, for the ever-present left-handed bandages, and they were the same ones Brackett had wrapped yesterday morning.

"Where'd you get those? That lake about three miles north of here?" Johnny's sense of direction, he knew, was nearly infallible.

"Yeah," his partner said, ducking his head a bit as he answered.

"Amazing," Roy followed him into the kitchen. "You didn't even bring a fishing rod."

Johnny looked at him, a bit hurt. "My father's people fished without fishing rods for thousands of years, Roy!"

"Ah."

Johnny dumped the fish into the sink.

"They fish without water, too?" Johnny turned and waited. "There's no lake three miles north of here. The nearest fishing spot is ten miles west." He watched his friend run his fingers through his hair, then wipe his face. "Want to try the truth?"

"I got them at a store in town."

"In town," Roy repeated. "Would that be the 'town' of Los Angeles?"

Johnny's expression sufficed for an answer.

"You could have stopped at Lucky's."

"I did. He didn't have what I was looking for, okay? So I drove for a while, just trying to clear my brain. And – I ended up back in LA. No big deal."

He began removing the hooks and tethers from the dead fish in the sink.

"You called Carpenter. Man, what is it with you? It's like an addiction –"

"I didn't call Carpenter!" Johnny snapped.

"Who, then? You could have made the call from Lucky's, you know. He's got a phone. It uses credit cards!"

"I called from Lucky's." Johnny sharp voice as he continued his work rose and tightened. "I had an appointment in town I had to keep, okay?" He pulled out a knife to begin cleaning the fish.

"A job interview?"

"No."

Roy stepped forward and pulled the knife out of Johnny's hand from behind.

Johnny whirled, fury on his face.

"No sharp objects, remember? Besides, your hands are shaking and you haven't taken anything for the pain all day. You're probably overdue on the antibiotic as well." He waited until Johnny's temper subsided and his breathing returned to normal before gently nudging him away from the sink. "I'll get these ready for dinner. Want to grill them?"

Johnny stepped to the side, then shut his eyes and shrugged. "Yeah, fine." He left the kitchen and Roy skinned and cleaned the fish and filleted them. When they were ready for grilling, he left the kitchen and went to check his partner.

Johnny sat on his bed, his right hand nervously, absent-mindedly, picking at the bandages on his left. He looked up when Roy came in.

"You know, man, I actually promised myself on the way up here that I'd control my temper," he said, by way of an apology. Roy grinned.

"Yeah, you've been making that promise to yourself for years." He sat on the edge of the other bed and faced his partner.

"I called someone," Johnny interrupted, staring at his hands, "who might – help explain things."

Roy wrinkled his forehead. This sounded a little too much like a return to the secret-FBI-operation scenario Johnny had thrown at him yesterday. "Someone who can help explain things. – To me?"

"Yeah."

"You told someone where we are?" That horrible, intrusive intuition began to make loud noises again.

"Yeah, why? You didn't lie to Joanne about where you were, did you?" Johnny grinned with the thought. "And I thought you were Mr. Honesty."

"No, I just – well, if Carpenter's as smart and clever and nasty as you say he is – do you think it was a good idea to tell someone else how to find us?"

Johnny shook his head. "Carpenter's happy for now. I resigned. He should have proof of that. He won't be tailing me."

And the intuition in Roy's head reached down and twisted his gut into a knot. "Uh, Johnny?"

Johnny faced him. Something in Roy's expression must have communicated itself to Johnny, because his own face grew instantly alarmed.

"Well, you gave the Cap two weeks' notice."

"You read my resig–"

"To call you back. If – he needed you – to fill in," he explained. "And – well, he's – sort of covering for a week or so – to see how things go. – Before he – turns in – your resignation. Accepts it. Formally."

Johnny stared at him for a few more seconds. "Headquarters doesn't know I've resigned?"

Roy shook his head.

"The guys don't know?"

Another shake.

"He's sitting on the letter?"

Roy nodded.

"Dammit." It was said very quietly, as if his lungs been punctured and all that came out was one final, wheezing expletive. He dropped his head into his hands, resting his elbows on his knees.

"Carpenter wants proof I resigned," he said, his teeth barely parting to form coherent words. "He'll call HQ, he'll stop by the station, something! He wants to know he won!" He looked back up and what surprised Roy was that there were tears in his eyes. "I resigned to make him leave us alone and he doesn't even know I did it!" He laughed, a horrible, dry chuckle that was caught in a sob. "Dammit."

"Look, we'll call the Captain from –"

"It's too late. He'll've checked by now." He rubbed his eyes to clear them and looked back. "Why didn't you tell me before we left LA?"

Roy shrugged. "Didn't know it was important. And – I figured if I could get you to fight for your job..." He didn't finish. It sounded, in this light, very manipulative, and Roy didn't like to think of himself that way. That wasn't him, it wasn't his style. He was a simple, straight-forward kind of guy, not the kind who got off on playing mind games with people.

But he _had_ manipulated Johnny, and the situation, and there was no avoiding that. If he expected Johnny to tell him the truth, it was only right that he get it in return.

"Sorry," he muttered lamely.

Johnny wasn't looking at him, now. He stared into the room, blankly, his eyes searching back and forth through his memory, through images Roy couldn't begin to fathom.

Roy had spent the late morning and afternoon studiously not letting his thoughts dwell on Johnny or his problems, thinking instead about such things as the joy his sister-in-law would feel if he finished repairing the roof this time; or about Joanne and the kids; or about how deeply silent and peaceful it was here, away from the rush and roar of the sirens and engines and fires that made up his normal day.

Johnny stayed in the bedroom. Finally, Roy went to check on him.

"We shouldn't have taken the Land Rover," Johnny whispered. He was just where Roy had left him. Hadn't moved an inch. Still "Should've used Joanne's car, one he didn't know, one that wasn't so easy to spot."

"Maybe we should pack up and head back –"

Johnny shook his head, and let out a long, hard breath. "Not tonight," he decided. "It's almost dusk now. If we take off and get stuck in a ditch or blow a tire... Tomorrow." He was scratching furiously at his bandages.

Without speaking, Roy got up and retrieved the first aid kit he'd gotten from Dixie. When he returned, he grabbed the small wastebasket by the bedroom door and brought it with him.

Johnny was still sitting on the bed, still thinking. Maybe retracing his steps today, Roy mused as he sliced away Brackett's artwork. The bandages were tight: Johnny's hand had swollen considerably during the day.

Johnny winced and sucked air between his teeth as Roy began pulling the bandages loose. He glanced at his friend's face, saw it pale, and remembered the nasty episode of shock he'd had in the engine bay two nights ago.

"You want to lie down?" he offered.

Johnny shook his head and watched as Roy removed the last of the bandages and threw them away.

"Where's the Darvon?"

"Not tonight. - But I'll take some aspirin."

Roy started to protest, then realized his partner was right: if Carpenter were on their trail, they couldn't afford for Johnny to be drugged.

"So much for three days of idyllic idleness," Roy muttered. "I'm sorry, Johnny, I didn't --"

"Forget it. It's my fault for dragging you into this." He was concentrating on holding his hand steady while Roy cleaned it and applied the burn ointment and topical antibiotic.

"You didn't drag me –"

"Drop it!"

"I don't like the looks of this," Roy offered. A sheen of sweat from the pain covered Johnny's face. Roy finished as quickly as he could, then wrapped the hand loosely, in case it swelled more overnight.

"I'll go start grilling the fish," he said.

He packed up the medical kit and left. He put a couple potatoes into the oven to bake, then got the grill cleaned and started the fire.

The game he was in the middle of had changed now, he decided, while he watched the charcoal blaze: it wasn't poker any more. He was a pawn in a chess match he hadn't even realized he was playing.

E!

The night crept by without incident. Neither Roy nor Johnny slept.

Johnny paced a lot and checked his watch repeatedly.

Roy flipped channels on the tube until he found an old Marx brothers movie, and let the sound and stupidity fill his brain to keep him from losing his mind while they waited out the long hours.

When the first hazy rays of dawn filtered through the windows, Roy sighed and went to the kitchen and made a fresh pot of strong coffee.

Intermittently throughout the night, he had tried to get Johnny to fill in more of the holes in the bizarre tale that had turned their world upside down. But Johnny was tight-lipped and nervous and edgy. Pain, Roy knew, could add to each of those, and putting on top of that the possibility of being stalked, and his responses grew sharper and briefer as the hours went on.

Most of Roy's questions were answered with the vague and nearly perpetual, "I can't say," as if Johnny were, indeed, under a set of orders to remain silent. For the first time since Johnny's apparently enjoyable romp with the two FBI agents in Captain Stanley's office, Roy began to question again why the government had been around asking questions, first at Rampart, then at the station.

"When you reported Carpenter to the authorities eleven years ago, did the FBI get involved?" Roy asked, as the early pre-dawn hours drifted in.

Johnny shrugged. "Undoubtedly."

It was one of his rare moments of sitting still for more than a few seconds. He had found a "Wheels and Gears" magazine, and took a seat in one of the overstuffed chairs to look through it. The quiet droning of the Marx Brothers in the background was ignored for the time being.

"Just what was it you reported him for?"

Johnny flipped through the pages of the magazine. "Can't really remember," he hedged. It was the first time he'd gotten that close to a lie since returning with the fish. Roy waited until he looked up.

"Well, are we talking about murder? You said he'd killed before."

Johnny met his eyes for a long minute, then said, "Change the subject." It was a firm answer, and Roy decided not to belabor the point.

"So, how's your father?"

The change in topic startled Johnny, but he concealed what he could behind the "Wheels and Gears" in his hands.

"Fine."

"I mean --"

"I know what you mean," Johnny interrupted. "He's fine."

"Then why'd you put `none' on your personnel form for next of kin?"

Johnny sighed and studied the page in front of him. "He moved into a nursing home a while back. I just keep forgetting to get the information, that's all."

_No,_ Roy thought,_ that wasn't even close to being all. _"Then why'd you put `none' on your personnel form for next of kin?"

"I just told you --"

"No, what you told me is that most people would have put 'Father' on the form and told Capt. Stanley they'd get the phone number next shift."

Johnny met his eyes, then returned to flipping through the magazine. "Well, I'm not most people," he said casually.

"Did he know where your sister was?"

"No."

"Have you called him? Does he know she's dead?"

There was a short pause, then a quiet, "No."

"Don't you think he'd like to know?"

Johnny sighed and put the magazine on the end table and faced Roy. "He had a stroke last year. I don't think he'd even comprehend it. And if he did – it wouldn't do him any good to know."

Roy wasn't sure he agreed with Johnny's assessment, but it seemed as if Johnny had spent some time considering whether or not to tell his father and had decided not to. He could argue the point with him, but without knowing Johnny's father or his sister – much less the whole story regarding her disappearance with Carpenter – it was hardly an issue he could debate.

Johnny had gotten back up then, had begun another circuit of the rooms, stopping to make more coffee during his tour of the kitchen.

Roy tried to put the pieces together in his own mind while the hours dragged by. He stared at the goofy antics of the Marx brothers, the Three Stooges, and Laurel and Hardy, and realized that in all that had happened, he couldn't recall seeing Johnny mourn his sister. Sure, twice he'd caught him in tears, deep, wrenching tears that seemed to have been pulled from the core of his being. But instinct and intuition and gut feeling and a long, deep knowledge of Johnny, told him he hadn't been crying for his sister. Both incidents had given Roy the feeling that Johnny had been crying for something much deeper than the young woman's death: something much more painful than losing a twin he hadn't seen in almost eleven years.

Hours later, the clock above the TV seemed to stand still at five-thirty. Roy got up and stretched and saw Johnny in the kitchen, staring out the rear window of the cottage.

"We might as well start packing," Roy suggested. By common, unspoken consent, they hadn't done it last night, and Roy guessed it was probably something they both wanted to put off until the last minute. Packing up was the preliminary step to a strategic withdrawal, otherwise known as surrender. It was going to be hard for Johnny to have to admit to that twice in one week.

"Yeah." Johnny moved away from the window. Their third pot of coffee for the night was brewing. "Figured we'd fill the Thermoses with coffee and head on out."

He disappeared into his room and Roy went to the bathroom for a quick shower. He felt hot and sticky, even though the weather had been cool. Being trapped in the cabin like a prisoner made him want to wash away the last several hours of agonized waiting before they began the trip.

As if in a well-practiced routine, Johnny had finished re-packing his belongings when Roy was done and took over the bathroom while Roy dressed and packed. By the time he was finished, they were both nearly ready to go.

But both of them had been too busy to notice the cloud of dust that flew up around the cabin with the arrival of a car. And it wasn't until they heard a knock on the door that the two men glanced at each other and knew that all their vigilance from the night before had died with the oncoming day, and they had left themselves unguarded and vulnerable.

There was a second knock, stronger this time. Johnny crept stealthily through the kitchen, hugging the walls, and checked outside from the window in the main room.

Then he relaxed and turned to Roy. "It's not Carpenter," he said. He left his position and returned to the kitchen.

Roy wrinkled his forehead: whoever it was, wasn't expected. And then he remembered: Joanne! He hadn't called her last night! She must have been worried and driven up here... He went to the front door while Johnny sealed the Thermoses and began packing the perishables they'd brought with them.

It wasn't Joanne. It was a man in his mid-fifties, dressed in jeans and a forest green, long-sleeved pullover, carrying a briefcase and a file folder, and wearing a holster. With a gun.

"You must be Roy DeSoto."

Roy's stomach clenched. "Yeah. Who are you?"

The stranger smiled and pulled out his wallet. "Special Agent Tom Summers, FBI." It wasn't a wallet he had pulled from his pocket: it was his ID card. Roy got a nice look at it, then half-turned toward Johnny. The man saw his gesture. "I think Mr. Gage is expecting me."

On cue, Johnny came up behind Roy and said, "Tom."

"John."

_"...We're all part of a secret FBI operation..." _

The familiarity in their words and the expression of relief on Johnny's face told Roy to never again assume that one of Johnny's unbelievable stories was actually untrue.

The man broke his gaze and looked back at Roy. "John asked me to come up here this morning to talk with you," he explained, as if that made everything crystal clear.

Roy just waited, not missing the intense fondness that slowly dissipated from the FBI agent's eyes as he addressed Roy.

"If I could come in," the man continued, "I think there are some things I can help you with."

Numbly, Roy stepped backward and allowed him to enter the cabin. He closed the door behind him and waited.

"You want coffee?" Johnny asked.

"Thanks."

"You going to tell me what's going on here?" Roy demanded.

He watched the man warily, not at all sure whether this development was a good sign or not.

The man put his briefcase on the coffee table by the couch. "I'm here to try to explain to you, as much as I can, what's been going on and where we stand now." He glanced at Johnny, then addressed Roy. "I'm the FBI agent assigned to John Gage."

It was Roy's turn to look at his partner, and he was surprised to see the man standing right next to him, thumbs hooked casually in his belt loops.

"Assigned – to Johnny? What, does everyone in the country have their own personal FBI agent now?"

"No. But everyone in Witness Relocation and Protection does."


	4. Chapter 4

**Three Little Indians**  
(Book I in The Firedance Trilogy)  
~ Part 4 of 7 ~  
Copyright © September 2002; January, 2010 by Hunter E. Black

Genre: Drama, Friendship  
Pairing: Johnny Gage/Roy DeSoto; John Gage/Other  
Rated: R (Graphic violence, sexual situations, mature themes)  
Content Warning: Rape; graphic violence; adult situations.

Author's Disclaimers: This story is written for pleasure and is not intended to violate any preexisting copyrights. You may download a copy for your personal use, but not for profit. This story is a work of the writer's imagination. All characters and incidents in this story are products of the writer's imagination and/or based upon the TV series, Emergency! Any relation to any persons living or dead is really a stretch, if you ask me!

Author's Note: Neither the title of this story nor any reference to "Indians" in the text is intended to offend any Native Americans of any tribe. The author grew up when the term Indian was widely used and not considered demeaning, or pejorative. However, the term is used in that way by one character in the story, and the author sincerely hopes he is well-hated.  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

~ Continued from Part Three. ~

Roy stared hard at his partner, who met the look stoically, impassively. Then Johnny turned away and headed to the kitchen to get coffee for their guest.

"Witness – Relocation…"

"And Protection," Agent Summers finished, and watched Roy carefully. "Because this is still an active case with ongoing investigations, I'll have to sanitize some of what I tell you. There are some names and details I'm not at liberty to discuss, and neither is John. You understand."

Roy nodded slowly: what else was there to do?

"John's family entered the program when he was twelve. His father turned state's evidence against the mob. He'd gotten tangled up in their dealings inadvertently, but he'd tangled himself into a lot of useful stuff."

While the agent began his obviously well-planned speech, he sat on the couch and put the solitary file folder on top of the briefcase. The folder was old and worn, and the tab had been covered and recovered with various self adhesive labels. The one on it now held Johnny's name.

Johnny returned with coffee for Summers, and Roy sat in the chair closest to the couch, elbows resting on the arms of the chair, hands clasped in front of him. When Johnny handed the coffee to Summers, the FBI agent demonstrated his keen observation skills.

"What happened to your hand?" he asked, gesturing to the bandages.

"Oh, uh, an accident at work."

Roy met the FBI's agent's dubious glance without answering his unspoken question. The man sipped his coffee and said, "Graduated from cigarette butts, huh?"

The same comment Johnny had made at the station, just before Roy had called Carpenter. Roy grimaced and turned his attention to his lap.

"You want me to talk to him alone, or do you want to stay?" Summers asked.

"I'll stay. Make sure I know how much you tell him so I don't talk out of turn. – And make sure you don't."

"Have a seat, then."

Johnny looked at the empty chairs in the room, as if measuring each of them against some standard in his mind. Then he shook his head and stood just to the right of Roy. "I'll stand."

The agent drank some more coffee, put the cup on the table, and said, without looking at him, "Easier to escape?"

Johnny didn't reply.

"Anyway, where was I?" Summers asked rhetorically. "Oh, right, 1958. John's family entered the program." He leaned back and looked at Roy. "We don't like to do that," he explained. "Kids that age can talk, they understand what's going on around them, and it's real easy for something to inadvertently slip out. It's a high risk situation. But we had no choice. We needed his father's testimony, and he wouldn't give it unless we took the whole family into protection. We had to do it."

Roy glanced at his partner, leaning against the front wall of the cabin, eyes locked on Summers' as if they were a life line.

"It was hard on the kids. That age, you're just beginning to figure out who you are: then along come these people in black suits telling you to forget everything you know about yourself and become someone else. Take up new hobbies, eliminate the old ones. New stature, new house, new school, new friends, new everything.

"Everything you loved about your life: gone. Everything you hated about your life: gone. Kids think at first that that's pretty neat – until they realize the have to make a whole new set of friends and they have no idea any more who their enemies are. They're never to refer to each other by their old names, even in private. We had to create a family that hadn't existed before 1958. It was – very tough."

Roy's stomach began to churn again.

_"Why didn't you call her Lisa when you first saw her?" _

Training. Years and years of training.

He tried to catch Johnny's gaze, but his friend continued to hold onto the lifeline he had found by keeping his focus on Summers.

"We gave them a new identity and moved them to Wyoming. The trial didn't go well. Despite John's father's testimony, which included witnessing two murders, the guys got off with five years in jail and ten years' probation. That's what we call an unacceptable outcome."

He leaned forward to get his coffee mug.

"We kept the family under heavy surveillance for two years, then under moderate surveillance another year. The mob doesn't like loose ands, and we had four of them hidden in Wyoming, so we played it safe and kept them tightly restricted."

The man glanced at John, then looked away.

"It didn't make things any easier for the kids. They resented the hell out of it." He smiled, tongue-in-cheek. "So they combined their talents and figured out how to give our men the slip from time to time so they could go off on their own. By the time they were fifteen, they'd made things pretty damned hard on us." He smiled fondly at Johnny, who looked just a touch embarrassed.

"Our restrictions on the family followed standard practice at the time for an unacceptable outcome. The mob doesn't wait for the person who's been convicted to get out before they start looking for revenge, which they traditionally view as a matter of honor. And our statistics indicated that the first four years were the most risky. After that, according to our practice, we dropped surveillance down to a minimum, loosened the restrictions, and gave them a little chance to breathe."

He slugged down the last of his coffee, then leaned forward and rested his arms on his knees. "And that's when the mob found them."

"How?" Roy asked. "How did they find them?"

Summers glanced at Johnny, then stared at his hands, clasped together in front of him. "I can't say." When he continued, it was only after several tight swallows. "In any case, they hired some locals to do the job, people who wouldn't stand out in that area. And the locals got John and his sister: they were kidnapped."

"This – would be a _really_ good part to sanitize," Johnny said, warning the agent with both his eyes and his words. The man raised his eyebrows and gave him a look, as if he were surprised Johnny had felt the need to say that.

He turned back to Roy. "John and his sister made themselves easy targets by being able to slip away from us almost whenever they wanted. Two determined, precocious teenagers are no match for the FBI, let me tell you. And while there isn't a whole lot of night life in Boulderton, Wyoming, there _are_ other kids. And there's alcohol. And drugs. Not all the people out there are squeaky clean.

"That made it easy for the mob to find people who would do them favors for a price. The people they found didn't seem to worry about their consciences. They'd been hired to eliminate the loose ends. Instead, they held the kids hostage. John's father had some political pull in Boulderton by that time, and the locals had some favors they wanted John's father to do for them. When he refused to cooperate–" He stopped and Roy glanced at his partner. John's eyes were very dark, his jaw was clenched, and he'd turned pale. "They tortured the kids."

Roy spent about a minute realizing he'd never noticed before how many muscles it actually took to breathe. "Tortured?" He could barely say the word, much less comprehend it.

"Tom!" John warned.

"In the end," the FBI agent said, shooting a glance at the standing paramedic, "John's father cooperated. He expected he'd get the kids back. But these guys had discovered power: they weren't about to release John and his sister."

Johnny pushed himself up from the wall, said, "Sorry, man, I need some air," and, as Summers had obliquely predicted, escaped out the front door.

"How bad was it?" Roy asked quietly, once the door had closed his friend outside.

"Very bad." The man turned away from the closed door. "John's father finally told us what had happened, what was going on. But we got a late start on finding these guys. And the kids." When he swallowed, it was hard-won battle with his muscles. "They'd been held for almost two months. When we found them, they had to go straight to the hospital. John's sister was released after three days. John was there for two weeks."

Roy closed his eyes and rubbed his hands across his face.

"We had to relocate them again," the man continued, not giving Roy's imagination much time to ponder the news he'd just gotten. Probably, Roy thought, from a distant part of his brain, a standard procedure to deflect attention from things too horrible to contemplate. He tried to concentrate on what the FBI agent was saying. Tried to keep his mind from filling in any details the man had deliberately left out.

"It was going to take some time, and Wyoming isn't an area where things move very fast. We decided by mutual agreement, to relocate the kids separately from each other and their father this time: they were obviously in danger as long as they were with him.

"Alex Carpenter – not his real name, as I'm sure you know – showed up. And this is where the Bureau takes a black eye. Whatever could go wrong in our screening process for applicants went wrong in his case: he should never have been accepted as an agent."

"Carpenter – worked for you?"

"For the FBI, yes. I was assigned as the primary agent to John. Someone else was assigned to his father. Carpenter was assigned to John's sister: no one could bother to make a female agent available. And that was a huge mistake."

He glanced at the file in front of him, then pushed it aside and sat back, as if he'd decided he didn't need to refer to anything inside it after all.

"John's sister had been brutalized by her kidnappers, and she needed someone to care for her. She became enamored with Carpenter. He convinced her that she'd be kidnapped again if she stuck with the FBI's program, and told her he could hide her away where no one would ever find her. He was a renegade, and a psychotic one, though we had no idea how psychotic until later. John's sister's life was torn to pieces. Twice. She was young and stupid and angry and vulnerable. Everything Carpenter could have hoped for.

"The problem was, she was also John's twin sister, and he was very – protective of her. Before we separated the kids, John got wind of what she and Carpenter were planning to do, and tried to talk her out of it. In the process, he discovered evidence about Carpenter's criminal activities. He reported it to me and I took it up the ladder: but we were too late. John's sister must have told Carpenter that John would try to stop them. So, armed with all the FBI's training, and knowledge of our procedures and practices and locations – not to mention some purloined equipment and materiel – he and John's sister disappeared."

"You lost them," Roy muttered, remembering what Johnny had said.

"We relocated John and his father separately. I came out LA to stay with John. For a while, we were planning to rename him with my last name, but Johnny really resented that idea, so we finally settled on the one he has now.

"Carpenter went to ground. He's a schizoid. A real one. Sometimes he's perfectly normal, and then something inside him snaps and he goes berserk. From the evidence we have, it seems that he can go for years without an episode. But then – it starts back up. With a vengeance.

"My best information so far indicates that Carpenter moved to Los Angeles only about six months ago."

"How did you find out he was here?"

"One of my field operatives here had worked with me in Wyoming, too. He recognized Carpenter."

"But how did he–"

"Sorry, Mr. DeSoto, that's another one of those things I can't explain any further."

Roy didn't like that, but he didn't say in it. "Did you tell Johnny he was here?" Roy made a concerted effort not to think too much about what he was being told. Anger seethed in his gut, and if he didn't focus on the information itself, he was afraid he was going to throttle Summers.

Better to just absorb the information right now. He'd deal with it later.

Agent Summers shook his head. "Not at first. I didn't expect they'd inadvertently run into each other."

"Well, that was your next mistake, wasn't it? They did run into each other!" He got up and began to pace the room. He forced himself to calm down, to breathe more slowly.

_Concentrate. Just concentrate! _

"Yes," the man admitted sadly. "Mr. DeSoto, you might not believe this, but I'm very fond of John. Of all my charges over the years, and there have been many, I've never cared quite so much for anyone else under my supervision. Partly, I suppose, because he was just a kid when I met him. All my other charges were people who'd bargained themselves out of significant and well-deserved prison sentences by squealing."

He turned around on the couch to keep Roy in view as he stalked back and forth across the room.

"But John and his sister were just kids, innocent bystanders. Even John's father wasn't intentionally involved in the mob's activities. He got sucked in slowly, and when he realized there was no way out, he came to us.

"So, all in all, this case is very close to me. I screwed up by not telling John they were here, I admit that. If it costs me my job when this is over, so be it. But if you think I've gotten any more sleep in the past two weeks than John has, you're badly mistaken."

Roy stopped pacing and glanced at the still closed door: Johnny hadn't returned.

As if reading his thoughts, Summers said quietly, "He hasn't gone anywhere. He's just – it's too hard to talk about."

Or even listen to.

Roy breathed. In. Out. In. Out.

"If someone took my kids," he said, not sure how steady his voice was, "I'd do anything to get them back. _Anything_! How the hell could that man do nothing and let his kids be tortured?"

It seemed, Roy realized, that no sooner had they uncovered one level of pain, than another, deeper one showed up, like peeling away one thin membrane of an onion after another. _How do you live with the pain of knowing your father allowed you to be tortured? How?_

Summers met his gaze steadily: it was Roy who broke it.

"I don't know. But that was one reason we decided not to keep them together."

"When you got the call to Carpenter's house," Summers said, "I knew there was going to be trouble. But we didn't have any way to intervene in time.

Roy considered that for a minute. "How did you know we got the call?"

"We have his phone tapped. He doesn't know it."

"How could he not know? He's a former FBI agent!" Roy protested. "He'd have heard the clicks on the phone..."

"Common fallacy," Summers answered evenly. "Our wiretapping equipment is more sophisticated. Did you hear any clicking on the phone at the station?"

Roy stared so long he felt his eyes water. "You've bugged the phone at Station 51?"

"A legally obtained wire tap, not a bug. Don't worry, we're not remotely interested in anything but getting Carpenter."

It was hardly comforting, Roy thought. And then, realizing what Summers had said, something that had made no sense at all suddenly began to.

"All those calls in the middle of the night..." He didn't realize he'd said it out loud until Summers nodded.

"John agreed to do it. We've got it all on tape to use against Carpenter. Every threat, every insult, every word. It's all on tape."

_"You just gotta know how to handle these government types, Roy." _

Roy felt numb, almost paralyzed. Johnny's stupidly ignored words kept running through his brain. "So, you've arrested him?"

"Not yet."

Roy hadn't expected that. "Why not?"

"I want him for murder, Mr. DeSoto. Everything else, as far as I'm concerned, is icing on the cake. Extortion and blackmail are nice to tag onto the indictment, but they won't put him away anywhere near long enough."

Extortion. Blackmail.

_"Did you ever make a decision you knew you were going to regret for the rest of your life?" _

"He does have something on Johnny."

Summers' gaze sharpened suddenly, as if he realized he'd said something he shouldn't have.

"But what on earth could he have been capable of that would be worth losing his job over?"

"It goes back to the kidnapping," he explained reluctantly. "Part of what I sanitized."

"Something the kidnappers made him do?" Summers didn't respond. "Something he did under coercion? That wouldn't count, would it? You can't feel guilty about doing something when they've got a gun to your head, can you?"

Summers' silence reverberated around the room, and he looked away. The door to the cabin held Roy's attention for several minutes. It didn't open.

"What happened?" he asked dully.

Summers shook his head. "I'm not at liberty to discuss it," he said. "It doesn't have anything to do with the investigation directly. It's just a way for Carpenter to wreak havoc with John's life, and for us to get additional evidence against him. – Mr. DeSoto?"

He turned to Summers.

"Do John a favor: don't push that issue. Trust me, there's no reason to."

_"...at the time, I thought I'd rather be dead! And then I did it anyway." _

Roy nodded, but he realized it was the one thing Johnny had almost voluntarily told him. And it was eating him up.

"Carpenter did murder his wife, then?"

Summers nodded. "But we need to be able to prove it was he who gave her the digitalis, not John. That's going to take some time. We have to keep him thinking he's got Johnny strung up and strung out until he finally slips and gloats about killing John's sister to torment him. Which he's more than likely to do. People like him get so proud of hat they've done, eventually they have to brag about it."

Roy felt weak. His legs weren't going to hold him up much longer. He went back to the chair and tried to think things through, at least a bit.

"And in the meantime, Johnny's resigned from his job and spent two weeks single-handedly fending off this psycho, while you and your guys went around calmly asking people at Rampart questions you already had the answers to?"

Summers' flinched, and looked away. He stared again at the file folder. "Not exactly." He met Roy's gaze. "The people investigating Jenny Carpenter's murder don't work in Witness Protection. To ensure the highest possible level of protection for all our witnesses, we rarely let anyone outside our own office know if they've got a case that might involve one of them."

"So when they came to the station and asked us all those questions?"

"They were doing their job. John gave them my number and I made sure they knew you and John weren't suspects."

_No wonder the encounter with the FBI had left Johnny feeling buoyant,_ Roy thought: _it was the first hand he'd won! _

Then he remembered all the odd calls in the middle of the afternoon, always incoming calls, always at the same time, always expected. And the very strange one John had made from his bedroom as they were packing.

"You're the guy who called him every day around three?"

Summers nodded. "Had to let him know what was happening, what I needed him to do next. – And reassure him that there _would_ be an end to it."

"And just when would that be? Before or after he kills Johnny?"

"If he wanted John dead, trust me, he'd be dead. He wants John to suffer for what he perceives John did to him."

"Perceives? Johnny said he turned the guy in. That sounds like more than perception."

The FBI agent hesitated. "John told me things that led me to other things, and that eventually led to us issuing a warrant. Some of those things, even John doesn't know yet. I'm sorry I can't be more specific than that, but as I said at the beginning, this is an ongoing, active investigation."

"So what happens next?"

"Well, since Carpenter should be feeling like a well-fed snake by now, he'll probably creep back to his nest to work out his next move. We've been talking with the oldest kid," he added. "I think he'll be able to help us."

Roy felt queasy. "I don't think you've got a well-fed snake on your hands: I'm afraid you have a hungry rattler. And what do you mean you've been talking with the oldest kid? You're using him, too? A ten-year-old boy?"

"I'd rather `use' him now to get those kids out of there than have them end up like John and his sister did," Summers snapped. "And what the hell do you mean about Carpenter?"

It finally, actually sank in: Roy really had stepped into the middle of an FBI operation. And with Captain Stanley's help, he'd managed to thwart the government's plan to put the really bad guy in prison. His head began to throb.

"Captain Stanley had us signed up for training next week. He's holding off on turning in the resignation or doing anything about it until we hear more on the autopsy. – Or until I tell him Johnny's beyond help, I guess."

Tom Summer's brown eyes flashed angrily. "Then I think you'd better get to a phone somewhere, as soon as you can, and tell Stanley exactly that! Damn!"

It was the FBI agent's turn to pace. Not pace, actually. He just stood by the couch, gazing into the kitchen, then back to the front door.

"Well-intentioned civilians!" he swore under his breath. "Harder to deal with than the damned criminals!"

"Well, without a few `well-intentioned civilians', I don't think either of us would ever get our jobs done, would we?"

The man faced him and his anger slowly dissolved. "Sorry." He took a deep breath. "Does John know about this?"

"That his resignation isn't common knowledge? Yeah, I told him last night."

Summers sat back down and opened his briefcase. Inside were several more file folders, most of them labeled only with a case number. He rummaged and found what he was looking for.

"No sign of him as of last night at midnight," he muttered.

"No sign of who where?"

The man looked up. "Carpenter. Here. We've kept the place under observation."

Roy felt a measure of relief. "We were going to take off this morning and go back –"

"Bad move." Summers got up and opened the door. "John?" he said gently. "We're done."

Johnny still looked pale and met Roy's eyes for less than a second before turning back to Summers, his eyes framing the questions he couldn't ask.

"Outline and summary only," the agent said. "No details."

Johnny nodded: it didn't help the color in his face.

"We've got a problem," Summers continued.

"I know." Johnny cleared his throat. "No resignation."

"I have two guys out here right now," Summers explained. "I also have your wife and kids under 24-hour surveillance," he added, looking at Roy. "John insisted on it."

_The strange phone call in Johnny's bedroom... The children… __His__ children!_

"Thanks. But so far, I'm not real impressed with your success rate."

"I don't want you to leave the cabin until I come back. I need to apprise my men of the situation and let them know we have a potentially problematic scenario on the horizon."

Johnny grinned then, a rapid smile that formed on his face, almost unbidden. "I just love it when you talk Governmentese," he said. "I studied the language for years, never could get the hang of it."

Summers smiled back and the look that passed between them was one of years and years of familiarity. And for a passing second, almost too brief to be noticed, Roy felt a pang of jealousy.

Special Agent Summers turned back to Roy. "I don't want you two to leave until I've secured the area and ensured that your family hasn't been targeted," he said, and Johnny laughed outright.

"There, see, he's doing it again!"

"John, this is serious," Summers objected.

Like a child caught making jokes in church, John struggled not to smile.

"If you leave before I've apprised my men of the situation, they won't be prepared to assist your wife and children in the unlikely event of an adverse exigency."

Even Roy couldn't help himself this time. It broke the tension and made the world a bit saner, and Summers waited it out, realizing he was outnumbered.

"I'll keep my men posted up here," he said, once the cloudburst of emotion had passed. "And I'll be back tomorrow morning at the latest."

He put everything into the briefcase, closed it, and spun the locks.

"Just out of curiosity," Roy started, glancing at the briefcase, "what was in that folder you carried separately?"

"John's original file. Just in case I needed to refer to anything. And to make sure it stayed with me at all times." He shot a glance at Johnny, for whom this seemed to mean something more than what Roy heard. The dark-haired man closed his eyes and swallowed tightly. "Alright, John, if anything happens between now and then, use the code and call me. You might want to explain the procedure to Mr. DeSoto, in case--"

"Of an unlikely exigency?" John finished for him. The man scowled and headed for the door. He put his hand on the knob, then turned. "Actually, call me at 3:00, anyway. Just to be on the safe side."

Johnny nodded and followed him back to the door. They stepped outside together and Roy could see them talking through the window. He couldn't read lips, nor was he trying to. But he could see that their discussion was amicable. More than amicable, he admitted.

Then the man pulled a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket and handed them and a book of matches to Johnny. He slapped him good-naturedly on the back before he got into the black sedan.

While the car pulled away, Johnny did something Roy had never seen him do before: he pulled a cigarette from the pack, lit it, and began to smoke it.

"Didn't know you smoked," Roy said, stepping out into the sun to join his friend. Johnny turned, startled, and exhaled smoke.

"Gave it up when I joined the Department," he said. "Figured I'd get enough smoke in my lungs just from doing my job."

"They're not good for you, you know."

"So I've heard."

The pack had been open when Summers gave it to Johnny, and Roy glanced into it. "How many you got in there?"

"You want one?"

"No," Roy said casually, crossing his arms over his chest. "I just got a real strong feeling I'd better be able to account for each one of those butts when Summers comes back."

Johnny met his gaze, then took a long drag on the cigarette and looked away. "Yeah." He dropped the half-smoked stick and ground it out with his foot. "Well, I was young and stupid." He shrugged.

"So now you're older and even more stupid."

Johnny leaned back against the wall of the cabin and closed his eyes.

It was hard to digest everything he had learned this afternoon, Roy realized. He glanced at the morning sky, noticed objectively how intensely blue it was. The light was just barely filtered by residual smog from LA, there were no clouds, and the sharp greens from the surrounding trees made the sky appear almost like a deep ocean floating above them.

Hard to imagine that in this same beautiful world there lived a man who had let his children be tortured so he could hold on to his own pride or stubbornness.

That there were men in this world who considered sixteen-year-olds fair game.

That there was a man whose ability to hate was so strong it had taken over his mind and warped it into a sadistic nightmare that he was now trying to draw them into.

Roy sat on the wooden porch, legs perched on the first of three steps to the ground. He wrapped his knees in his arms and wondered what it was inside a person that drove them to such depths.

"So the plan is to nail him for Jenny – Lisa's – murder, right?"

Johnny snickered. "Jenny, Lisa. Lisa was her second name. It's just – that's who she was when I last saw her." He stared into the trees.

A sudden thought made Roy smile and he looked at his friend. "So what was your real name? Before you were John Gage, I mean."

_Before you were John Gage. _

Man, what a weird way to have to think of him! All these years, all the crunches they'd been in, the rescues, the disasters, the endless, boring hours with nothing to do... All that, and never once had Roy even remotely guessed that John Gage was a pseudonym.

"I was lucky," his partner said. "John's such a common name, they let me keep it. The last name was so different, no one who was looking would have put it together with our real name."

_"You know, John is the second most common name in the country." _

_"That so? What's the first?" _

_"Lee." _

_"So someone named John Lee would fade into the crowd..." _

Roy shook his head. Everything from the past two shifts looked different now. Vastly different.

"I'm sorry, Roy."

He looked up, surprised by the words. "For what?"

Johnny shrugged and stared at the pack of cigarettes in his hand, then surrendered and pulled another one out. "For dragging you into this."

"As I recall, you kept trying to keep me from butting in where I wasn't wanted."

John inhaled the nicotine and let it out slowly, savoring it. He kept his eyes closed and shook his head. "No, I didn't."

"Johnny, you made it real clear –"

"I made it real clear!" Johnny interrupted, and finally looked at him. "Crystal clear." There was a lot of bitterness in his words. "I'm a walking, talking lie, Roy! And no one sees through it, not even you, not even after three years! I can lie like hell when I really want to!" He paused for a breath and squeezed his eyes shut for a second.

"I didn't want – to have to face him alone," he confessed quietly. He stared at the porch. "I wanted to make sure that you'd stay nearby, in case he–" His voice cracked and he cleared his breath. "I'm sorry, man. It was wrong, and I'm sorry."

"Johnny–"

He threw the cigarette down and stomped on it angrily.

_At least he wasn't smoking the whole thing_, Roy thought.

And at least he wasn't holding the butts against his own flesh to torture himself.

"I _wanted_ you to know. Soon as that shift ended, I called Tom and told him I wanted him to clear you, so I could tell you. – He said no dice."

"What changed his mind?"

"Told him I wouldn't play along any more. Told him I'd resign and disappear, just like Carpenter did. He wasn't real pleased with that."

Roy gazed at the rough-hewn stones that had been laid to form an uneven pathway to the door.

"He cares about you," he muttered. But he didn't feel that odd pang of jealousy this time.

"He cares about nailing Carpenter."

"Don't you?"

"Yeah, sure. But I care more about getting those kids out of there first."

The kids. Five small children who had just lost their mother...

_A twin sister. __And__ a mother... _

_Damn! How had he missed that? _

"How did your mother die?" Roy stared hard at the weeds growing between the primitive flagstones in front of him, not wanting to see what Johnny's eyes might reveal.

"I never said she died." His voice was toneless and hollow.

_Flat-line, Rampart! No pulse. The victim is in arrest... _

It was what Roy had dreaded. It's what he'd been praying he wouldn't hear.

"Yeah, you did," he whispered. He cleared his throat. "At Rampart, when I asked you how Lisa was."

He waited for Johnny to remember the bitter words he'd probably never imagined Roy would pick up on, even now: _"She's lost her twin sister and her mother. How else would she be? She's fine."_

"Besides," Roy murmured, "when Summers started off, he was talking about four loose ends. By the end, there was just you and your dad. And I know what happened to your sister."

He didn't think Johnny was breathing any more.

_Rampart, the victim is in severe pain! Request 2mg. MS IV! _

"I've never heard you talk about your mother."

He waited.

"You never will." Johnny pulled himself up from the wall and went inside.

_Rampart, we have severe internal hemorrhaging... _

E!

Johnny stayed in his room for the rest of the morning. Roy had no desire or need to bother him. If he'd had the luxury, he'd have offered to leave and let Johnny trash the place. Given his temper, it was amazing he hadn't put a fist through a wall yet, Roy decided.

On the other hand, he had impaled himself with a knife, held his hand over an open gas flame, and ground scalding coffee and ceramic shards into his flesh.

On second thought, Roy decided, it was just as well that he didn't have that luxury.

Roy fixed a PB&J for lunch, ate some chips with it, and made up a short grocery list to take to Lucky's when Johnny went to call Summers later that afternoon. He'd call Joanne at the same time, let her know he wasn't sure which day they'd be back.

And set up a time to call her back.

And he'd give the Captain a call at home, try to convince him that getting out the word that Johnny had resigned was, ironically, the best thing he could do for Johnny right now.

As all the information he'd ingested began to sort itself out, Roy began to realize why Johnny hadn't needed to mourn his sister's death: he'd probably passed that step of grieving years ago. Now he was probably grieving the threat to his own security, possibly his life, and the lives of those he cared for.

"…_This time, no one else gets hurt…"_

But another pain, long-buried and ignored, had been pulled to the surface with her death, pain Johnny probably never really dealt with.

"_...I didn't want to have to face him alone... I wanted to make sure that you'd stay nearby, in case..." _

So far, the most rewarding praise Roy could ever remember having received.

Not that Joanne didn't praise him, make him feel good, stroke his "macho male ego" when he needed it. But that was different. Joanne had made a choice to stick with him for life, and he'd made the same choice with her. Somehow, at least in Roy's head, that seemed to mean that a certain amount of regularly-bestowed praise and ego-boosting was called for from each of them.

But John Gage had only one requirement, and that was just to be his partner, his co-worker. Luckily, he was also a good friend.

Johnny had known Roy was awake when he'd relinquished control of that pain in the dorm. And Johnny had probably guessed he'd be followed the night he ground scalding coffee and ceramic shards into his hand. It was an unspoken trust, and Roy tucked it away for safe keeping.

E!

Roy knocked on Johnny's door. "It's almost three," he called. "We'd better head down to Lucky's."

It took a minute before Johnny opened the door to join him, and he didn't rush it.

"What do you want for dinner?" he asked, heading for the door.

"I dunno." Johnny grabbed the keys from the hook, then let out a heavy breath, and Roy turned to see the vestiges of a grimace dissolve from his face.

He grabbed the keys from his friend's good hand and said, "Take the Darvon. Summers has this place covered and we can both use the sleep."

Johnny didn't argue and headed back to the bedroom for the pills. "Let's go," he said when he returned.

Roy drove down the mountain. The roads weren't bad, but they were steep in places, and there was one hairpin turn that really should be negotiated only in daylight. Potholes and ruts and deep ditches by the side of the roads – when they could actually be called "roads" – made Johnny's recommendation to stay at the cabin last night a good one.

"Fried chicken," Roy decided.

"With coleslaw."

"And potato salad."

The five-mile trip took almost twenty minutes because of the roads. But Lucky's was the closest thing in the area, and Lucky made it a point to stock his customers' preferences. Roy appreciated that.

"You call Summers and I'll get the food. Then I'm gonna give Joanne a quick call. I forgot to check in with her last night."

The wariness in Johnny's eyes was understandable.

"Not a word, don't worry."

He headed into the store and browsed for a few minutes.

Lucky's produce was usually fair, the best he could do, but the peaches right now looked fabulous, and Roy remembered a peach pie recipe from his grandmother. He bought several of the succulent fruits and decided to bring the pie back to Joanne for a surprise.

"Hi, Roy, how's it goin'?" Lucky called from the back room.

He was approaching seventy, Roy guessed, and had been there, according to some tales, since the end of World War II. Roy wondered what he was going to do with himself when he finally retired. If he ever slowed down enough to retire.

"Going fine, Lucky, thanks." He finished shopping and took his things to the register. While Lucky was ringing up Roy's purchases, an idea occurred to him.

"Hey, Lucky, everyone going up that mountain has to come by here, right?"

"`Less'n they know some way in I don't."

Roy smiled. "And how likely is that?"

Lucky squeezed his forefinger and thumb together and squinted.

"Thought so. Listen, if you see anyone around here you don't know, tell me when I come back?"

Lucky shrugged quickly, almost a spasm. "Sure, okay. Why?"

"Well, not everyone we rescue turns out to be real grateful, you know?"

The old shopkeeper blew a sharp, rapid breath out through his lips. "Boy, do I know! – That's $27.20," he said.

Roy pulled out thirty and handed it to him, glancing back outside. The phone wasn't in use. Johnny must have finished.

"Thanks, Lucky. See you tomorrow."

"Sure. Hey, where's the missus?"

"Oh, she's at home. Johnny and I are up here to relax and do some fishing."

"Well, give her my best."

"Will do."

He handed the bag of groceries to Johnny through the open passenger side window. "Any change?"

Johnny shook his head. He was looking drowsy from the Darvon.

"Okay, I'll just be a minute." He went back to the pay phone and pulled his wallet out, dug out his credit card and made his first call.

Joanne was relieved to hear from him. The kind of relieved that warned him he was in for a two- or three-hour lecture once he got back, and owed her at least a day without the kids around and a very expensive meal to make up for all the gray hairs she claimed she'd gotten in the past twenty-four hours.

"Roy DeSoto, if you ever – ever – do that again, I'll skin you alive!"

"I love you, Joanne." It was all he could think of, and he meant every word.

When he'd taken his scolding, the warm-up for the real tongue-lashing, he called Captain Stanley. Now came the hard part.

The Captain's wife answered, chatted without realizing he was calling long-distance on a credit card, then finally turned the phone over to Hank.

"Roy. Everything okay?"

_Lie! Lie like you've never lied before! _

"Well, to tell you the truth, Cap'n..." He stopped and let out a long, loud breath to be sure the Captain heard it. "I think Johnny – I think he's gonna need more help – than we can give him."

Actually, Roy thought, that wasn't so much of a lie after all. "He just won't – I couldn't get him to tell me anything," he added, rather pleased with his new-found ability to twist truth.

And then it was Roy's turn to hear the deep sigh from the other end of the phone. "I'm real sorry to hear you say that, Roy."

"Why?" Cold dread tightened around his stomach.

"Brackett called me earlier today."

Cold dread was replaced with premonition.

"Some of the results from the autopsy have started to come back. I didn't follow everything he was saying, but it didn't sound good."

"They've confirmed digitalis?"

"Yeah."

His mouth dried up as if a sponge had just absorbed all the moisture from it. "Dixie said the tests would take at least a couple weeks!"

"Yeah, I know, you told me. Brackett said some hotshot at the coroner's office who just got out of training had a brand new technique for extracting something or other from something else, using something that sounded like toxic chemicals. Anyway, they tried it and it worked."

Roy swallowed dry. It hurt.

"I hate the idea of leaving John to fight this alone, Roy.

Especially if he isn't handling it well now!"

_Damn! _

_Damn! Damn! Damn! _

_He's not alone, Cap! He's got the FBI helping him. And me, too, now. It's not as bad as it looks! It's just far worse than you could possibly imagine. _

_Was this how Johnny had felt, _Roy wondered, one part of his brain diving into speculation to avoid confronting what the Captain had just said._ Was this what it was like every time I tried to help, tried to find out what was going on? _

_Is this what life is like in Witness Protection? _

_Damn! _

"I don't like it either," was all he said. It took a minute before the Captain replied.

"Look Roy, you know I hate to get involved in your personal lives. But – would it do any good if I came out there to talk –"

"No!" That was too fast, too harsh. _Back off. Relax_. "No, uh – well, Cap, if I can't get him to talk, I don't think you'll be able to."

"Well, maybe I can remind him that his job's on the line."

"He knows, Captain."

There was another pause. Roy felt enormous empathy for the Captain right now: he'd been there, in his place, just yesterday.

"Okay," he breathed out at last. "We got two options. One, I turn in his resignation, tell them it's effective immediately, and cut him loose. Or two, I tell Headquarters I have a fireman in distress. Help me out here, Roy, you know him better than I do."

Fireman in distress. A nice, clean phrase for a dedicated public servant who was going to pieces emotionally. He'd get counseling. Referrals to specialists. Help in coping with whatever was causing his "distress".

And a note in his record that would prevent him from ever moving up much past engineer. Maybe not even that far.

More than that, though, was the core reason Roy had called the Captain in the first place: word that Johnny had left the Department needed to get out. And it needed to get out _now_!

"Turn in his resignation, Cap'n," Roy said quietly. A small, dirty part of him said it. And he began to realize what self- loathing felt like.

_"... you can't feel guilty about doing something when they've got a gun to your head, can you?" _

"You seem like you're giving up pretty easy, Roy. I know Johnny's the one who usually hangs on the like a pit bull, but you can be just as determined and pig-headed when it counts."

"I just… I think this is best."

A minute passed. Then another. And another. Roy began envisioning his credit card bill: it was a nice splash of water on his burning conscience.

"Roy?"

"Yeah, Cap?"

"Is there anything to the fact that this Carpenter woman and John were born on the same date in the same town?"

Translation: _I'm not losing Gage without a fight. And I'm not as oblivious as you may think I am. _

"I think there is, yeah." That much he'd been able to discern before he'd talked to Summers.

"Hmm." Translation: _Good! _"And is there anything – let's say even something insignificant – anything you know about this now that you didn't the last time you called me?"

"Yeah."

Another short pause was followed by words Roy had only remotely hoped for, and a tone of voice he wouldn't even have dared pray for.

"Okay, I'll turn in the paperwork first thing Monday." He was calm and matter of fact, without a hint of reluctance or argument in his statement.

"Tomorrow morning, as early as possible, would be better."

"Tomorrow's Sunday."

"Oh, right." Fire stations worked `round the clock: Headquarters didn't. "Then call Dixie McCall at home and make sure she spreads the word. Rapidly."

"I see." _This had better be damned good, DeSoto, or your butt's going to be in a sling._ "You happen to know her number?"

Roy pulled out the scrawled note she'd given him with the contraband medical supplies, and read it off to him.

"You must call her at home a lot!" It was a simple, common statement, not an attempt to peek into Roy's life or insinuate anything. Nevertheless, since he was now encouraging the Captain to distribute one rumor, Roy didn't want him to get the idea that he was expected to distribute another.

"No, she wrote it down for me. In case I needed anything this weekend." There! That was true and didn't implicate her in the illegal distribution of controlled substances.

Roy felt rather pleased with himself.

"When you say `rapidly'…" the Captain began.

"By last Thursday would be best."

"Oh." No readily-available translation. "Roy?"

"Yeah, Cap'n?"

"How long before I'm going to have a decent night's sleep if I do this?"

Roy smiled. "Tonight."

"You sure about this?"

"Beyond question. Make sure everybody knows. Volunteer the information, tell strangers if you have to, but make sure everyone you can think of gets the word that Johnny's out of the program."

"Uh huh." _Forget the sling! If this doesn't have a happy ending, you'd better make damn sure you've got enough life insurance! _"Anything else?"

"No. Not right now. Listen," Roy added, putting one more safeguard into place. Just in case. "I'll call you tomorrow. Is there a good time?"

The Captain didn't say anything for a moment. He was processing the request, Roy thought, trying to figure it's place among the other puzzle pieces.

"After church. We usually get home around one."

"One o'clock," Roy confirmed. "I'll call you at one. No later than one-thirty."

"Okay."

"No later than one-thirty," Roy repeated slowly for emphasis.

"Got it. No later than one-thirty. Or, more technically: thirty minutes after one o'clock?"

"Thanks, Cap'n."

"Roy?"

"Yeah."

"Some of the guys at the station think I'm a bit paranoid," he said.

"Oh, I wouldn't–"

"…but I like to think of myself as just extremely cautious."

"Yeah," Roy agreed.

"So, naturally, when FBI agents show up at the station to question my paramedics…"

"I don't think they'll be back."

"Mmhmm." Long, drawn-out, dubious-sounding mumble: _This had better be damned good, DeSoto!_ "Well, I guess I got some calls to make."

"Thanks, Cap'n. I'll call you tomorrow-"

"No later than one-thirty," Stanley preempted him.

They said good-bye and Roy walked back to the Land Rover.

Johnny was asleep, his head lolling the left. Roy got in and backed away from Lucky's, heading up the mountain to the cabin.

"We've got ourselves one hell of a Captain, Junior," he whispered.

Junior snored.

E!

_"If wishes were horses, then beggars would ride," Roy's mom always said. _

_Roy always wondered why beggars would want to ride. Wouldn't they rather have food and drink and shelter and clothing and security? Why would horses be so high on their wish list? _

_"It's a figure of speech," Roy's mother explained. _

That and other profound philosophies galloped through Roy's mind as he sliced peaches for his pie, the activity helping to concentrate his thoughts on something irrelevant, useless, and mundane. It was, the paramedic realized from a remote, clinical part of his brain, a classic way of dealing with either grief or a long period of stress.

He'd dragged Johnny, shuffling unsteadily from the pain killer, into the cabin laid him on the couch, draped an afghan over his legs and shoved a pillow under his head. There was no sign of fever, but his hand wasn't responding well to the antibiotic. When they left tomorrow, Rampart was going to be on the way home.

After he had the pie in the oven, he heated the frozen fried chicken and went to rouse Johnny from the sofa.

He never got the chance

The front door burst inward with a violent rupture, a kick forceful enough to splinter the hinges as it gave way. Roy was facing the door, just ready to lean over and shake Johnny to bring him back to the world.

But Johnny slept right through the assault: and he slept through the first terrifying seconds that followed.

Alex Carpenter, dark eyes glistening, lips twisted upward tightly, entered the room like a marine on a mission, a .22 caliber gun in his hand. Behind him were five more men, each of them, like Carpenter, dressed for a hike. Each of them sporting various models of semi-automatic rifles and shotguns. Each of them with a blue or gray ski mask over his face.

_Locals! _

The first conscious thought in Roy's mind, a split second after the sudden onslaught, was the infinitely irrelevant, _Now I'm going to have to fix the roof and the door!_ His second thought was, _What a motley group of criminals!_ And finally, _Better turn off the oven so the cabin doesn't catch fire._

His mind just couldn't deal with the astounding reality that faced him. Not yet.

"Well, well, well," Carpenter drawled. He alone wore nothing to disguise himself, Roy noticed. Not a sign that portended a good outcome. "Look at this! A perfect display of the ideal couple: a queer Indian and a tight-assed Italian! –You are a Romanist, aren't you?"

Roy wasn't sure whether to lie or tell the truth. He didn't know which answer would defuse Carpenter.

"No."

"Oh. Too bad." He seemed genuinely disappointed.

The men behind Carpenter flanked him, guns drawn on Roy and Johnny.

"Fairy, Fairy, quite contrary, how does your hard-on grow?"

Carpenter jostled Johnny, but the man remained asleep. Carpenter waved the gun at Roy. "What's wrong with your little princess?"

Roy swallowed and realized he hadn't blinked. The moisture that should have been in his mouth seemed to appear instead in his eyes.

_Pulse is rapid and thready, Rampart... _

"This isn't a good idea, Carpenter," Roy said quietly.

Crisis Intervention Training Seminar, Session II: _Don't antagonize the aggressor. Try to neutralize and calm him. _

Roy held his arms out and up, like goal posts on a football field, a semi-surrender position that was calculated to look non-threatening while subliminally giving Carpenter's brain the impression that Roy was bigger than he actually was.

Carpenter narrowed his eyes and smiled. "Au contraire," he said. "This is a very good idea." He glanced over his shoulders at the men behind him. "Our little fairy is asleep. That's going to make him real easy." He turned back to Roy. "Now all we have to do is keep you under control." He gestured wordlessly to the man behind him on his right, who moved forward and grabbed Johnny from the couch, yanking him upright.

Johnny couldn't stand, but he tried to open his eyes and wake up. "Dinner ready?" he asked groggily.

Carpenter smiled silently and gestured to the gunmen to take him out. Then he turned to Roy. "And how about you?" he asked. The remaining weapons in the room – only three now, since Carpenter had holstered his – were trained on various parts of Roy's body. "Do you want to join our party? Or do I need to convince you to come along?"

Roy's instinct told him to join. His conscience told him to resist. He said nothing: he left it to Carpenter.

Carpenter heaved a sigh. "Move!" He grabbed Roy's arm and shoved him forward toward the dangling wooden door and the outside.

He started to tell Carpenter, based on his deeply-embedded fireman's training, as well as his mother's incessant drilling of him as a child, that he had to turn off the oven.

Then he checked himself.

He knew Joanne would forgive him. He prayed his sister- and brother-in law would. And he said nothing.

How Carpenter's tan Ford had gotten to their front door without him noticing, Roy wasn't sure. Except, of course, that he had counted on Summers' FBI agents to keep an eye on the cabin and hadn't bothered with the same level of vigilance he and Johnny had executed last night or early this morning.

"Where's Johnny?" he demanded. Carpenter enjoyed himself for a minute, his eyes grazing Roy's almost seductively, as if trying to draw him into the sick game.

"In the trunk. - Don't worry," he added, "we don't have far to go. Now, be a good little paramedic and don't say anything more until you're told to. Understand?" he growled.

Roy nodded and lay where he was pushed on his side on the back seat floor. Carpenter got into the front seat with two of the other men, and Roy was left with three pairs of shoes resting on him as the men in the back used his body for a footstool. And kept him restrained, as well.

Roy closed his eyes. As a mental exercise to keep panic at bay, he began to catalogue Summers' and the FBI's disasters in this case as he lay uncomfortably on the floor of the back seat. The car started to move.

First, there was the "unacceptable outcome" back in 1958. Was that Summers' fault or the FBI's? He wasn't sure.

Next was the fact that Johnny and his sister became more adept at eluding their guardians than the agents did at keeping watch over them. The fault there landed on the whole Relocation Program.

After that, what? Oh, yes, letting Carpenter into the FBI to begin with. That had been a group effort. And not acting quickly enough on Johnny's information, which led to Carpenter's disappearance. That had needed more than just Summers' incompetence.

The boots on his side and hips and shoulder ground down on him and the men began laughing quietly and chuckling to themselves as he squirmed with pain.

_"... the locals got John and his sister: they were kidnapped." _

Roy opened his eyes, shut until then to help him concentrate on holding back the screams for help his instincts demanded. _Had Carpenter hired these guys just for this job, or was he using well-trained, loyal associates? And where were Summers' men? Dead? Oblivious?_

With any luck, they were just bound and gagged by their own idiocy.

There was no way to know. None of these guys carried the type of gun Summers had. There was no way to identify anything but their eyes, so Roy studied those surreptitiously from the floor: no one noticed. Then he closed his eyes again when the shoes on his waist began to grind down harder, purposely. He went back to the catalogue of errors.

There was the FBI's botched ability to locate and arrest Carpenter: another team effort.

And finally, to top it off, there was Summers' decision not to warn Johnny that Carpenter and his family were in Los Angeles: that was a solo flight of over-confidence, stupidity, and probably pride.

Now, Summers had blown it again. His men had _not_ protected him and Johnny. The FBI agent had disappeared to realms unknown and wouldn't return until who-knew when. And, in all likelihood, he and Johnny would be dead by that point.

_"If he wanted John dead, trust me, he'd be dead. He wants John to suffer..." _

Not considering Summers a reliable font of information, Roy wondered if that were still true. Even if it were, Summers had said nothing about the expendability of bystanders.

Roy was good at heart rates. He could give a rough count after only a second or two of palpating the artery. He could do it in his head with medically-reliable accuracy, even without a stopwatch. He knew his heart was pulsing heavily and quickly, and since he could see his hands and his watch, he estimated his pulse at about 120, and started counting silently.

By his count, the trip took almost twelve minutes. When the car stopped, Roy wasn't sure if he should be relieved or even more concerned. He decided on neither and kept himself in an emotional holding pattern while the men around and over him got out, then dragged him from the car.

He got out in time to see Carpenter open the trunk.

It hadn't taken Carpenter long to begin making his prisoner suffer, Roy saw. His cohorts had been quick and brutal.

Johnny's left eye was already bruising, and blood trickled down his cheek. His lips were swollen on one side, and another deep discoloration was forming nearby where he must have been struck. The pack of cigarettes Summers had given him had fallen from his shirt pocket and were left lying in the trunk.

Two men grabbed and manhandled Johnny, who was dazed and barely conscious, and Carpenter began singing to himself, a childhood, playground counting song Roy had heard before. But not with the words Carpenter used.

"One little, two little – _queer_ little Indians," the man sang, lingering on the last phrase, drawing it our slowly. "Four little, five little – sexy little Indians..."

Johnny's hands, Roy realized as two of Carpenter's henchman grabbed and pulled Johnny from the car, were tied behind him with expertly-made knots: any struggle would tighten the ropes around his wrists, cut off the circulation, and cause intense pain, especially to Johnny's already wounded hand.

"Seven little, eight little, - no little Indians." Carpenter ground the words between his teeth.

Johnny shook his head rapidly, like a dog trying to shake water from its coat, and tried to focus on his surroundings. His eyes – or, at least, the bruised one – must have been blurry: he squinted and blinked repeatedly.

"No little Indian - boys!" Carpenter smiled and put his hand under Johnny's chin to force his gaze up. "Hello, little Indian boy."

He looked Johnny over carefully, like a man inspecting a racehorse, then released the chin. "We're going to have a party, Johnny boy. A surprise party. Just for you. – Do you still like parties? Hmm? Look over there," he said, pointing to the right and ahead just about twenty feet up the mountain. "See, I've got everything all set up."

Roy also turned to look. The broad clearing ahead was stubbled with tree stumps and broken twigs. Pine needles, leaves and branches carpeted the ground. In the middle of the small field was a folding table, the long, laminated-top kind used by conferences and church groups and other organizations for short-term projects.

"Take them up there!" Carpenter snapped to his masked friends. He shoved Johnny roughly ahead and two of the men grabbed the staggering man and dragged him along. Roy was prodded with gun barrels to achieve the same effect.

One tree stump, significantly taller than the others, stood to the right of the table. That's where Carpenter's men took Johnny.

Carpenter followed with various supplies he'd pulled from the trunk, and two of these, a long switchblade and a length of cord, he tossed to the two men who had Johnny.

"Get his shirt off and restrain him," Carpenter ordered, and as the men set to work on a prisoner who was still struggling to remain upright, the psychotic leader turned his attention to Roy.

"Mr. DeSoto," the man started, "I do apologize for having to bring you into this. My quarrel is with the fairy over there. But –" he held his hands up, palms up, and shrugged, "such are the fortunes of war." He took a quick look at his men.

The extra cord had been wrapped tightly around Johnny's already bound wrists and then to the tall tree trunk, which rose to the level of his neck. He kept shaking his head and blinking, and Roy worried that the blows he'd been given before they put him in the trunk had been dangerously harsh.

_Rampart, the patient is disoriented. There are signs of head trauma... _

One of the men was using the knife, slowly slicing away Johnny's flannel shirt. They rolled his sleeves down to make the cutting easier, then punctured the fabric at the elbow and ripped downward to the cuffs. They repeated the motions at his shoulders and clavicle, until the shirt dropped away in two pieces, front and back.

"Johnny isn't responsible for what happened to you." Roy was surprised to find his voice reasonably strong and steady. "Agent Summers followed up on Johnny's leads, that's all. He's the one who issued the warrant."

"Yes, my dear friend, Mr. Summers, has been talking to you."

The manic gleam in the man's eyes was frightening: one couldn't reason with an irrational person, and Carpenter was definitely irrational. "Well, that's okay, you can believe anything you want to. It doesn't matter, really. If the Indian fairy hadn't squealed on me to begin with, no one would have had to issue a warrant, would they?"

"Look, Carpenter," Roy said, more and more surprised that he'd finally pulled free of his own paralyzing panic, "what more do you want? Johnny resigned…"

"That's not what I heard."

"The Captain didn't want to terminate him. He gave us a couple weeks. But I called him this afternoon. You can check for yourself. Half of Los Angeles should know by now!"

Carpenter's tight-lipped grin was un-amused. "You went down to that store this afternoon, DeSoto. For all I know, you and the Captain decided to plant that story to convince me. I wasn't born yesterday!"

"We didn't plant a story! Johnny's resignation is in Stanley's desk. You can check it -"

"Too late." He looked back at his captive, now secured to the tree. Johnny was trying to focus on what was happening around him.

_Don't! Don't, Johnny. Just stay with the drugs, partner. Go with it, don't fight it! _

"Such a pretty little Indian boy, don't you agree?" Carpenter teased, his eyes boring into Roy.

No good answer: just keep quiet.

Carpenter took a deep breath and removed his gun from its holster. "Now, let me lay out the ground rules for you, shall I?" He didn't wait for a reply. "That little fag over there and I have some unfinished business to attend to. At the moment, my gripe is only with him, not you. You could change that, however," he added, gesturing with the gun in his hand, "by trying to escape, interfere, or do anything else that might interrupt me. Do you understand, Mr. DeSoto?"

He nodded mutely.

"Good. Because in addition to calling down my wrath upon you if you try anything, you should remember that you're just a bit outnumbered and outflanked. Not only are there three of us for each of you, but I doubt seriously that either of you – especially the little fairy queen over there – has had enough self-defense or martial arts courses to take me on." He glanced again at the tree that supported John. "He's in no condition to take on even one of us, much less three." His grin twitched on his face. "And that doesn't even take into account our guns, does it? Some of which have very accurate scope finders and very long ranges." He lifted both eyebrows. "_Capice?"_

"I'm not Italian."

The kidnapper leaned in close and whispered, "And I'm not really a carpenter." Then he laughed at his own un-funny joke.

He left Roy to the oversight of the three men who had taken their cue to stay close to the unfettered paramedic, and went to the tree trunk. Johnny seemed to be focusing better, Roy thought, and wasn't sure whether to be grateful or not.

"So, my pretty little whore," Carpenter began, tilting John's chin up with the muzzle of his gun, "you thought you could outsmart me, huh? Thought you could lie to me, make me believe you were putting down you puny little tomahawk? Well guess what, pretty boy? It didn't work!"

Without warning or reason, he raised the gun and swiped it hard across Johnny's face. Instinctively, Roy jerked forward, but two sets of arms grabbed and restrained him, the men behind the knitted masks laughing at the display.

"You've taken me for quite a ride over the past eleven years, Injun. Now it's my turn to take you for one."

Johnny cleared his throat and licked blood from the corners of his lips. "Let him go."

It was the first thing Johnny had said since he'd been dragged from the cabin: and it wasn't the right thing to say.

Carpenter looked Roy over critically, then smiled and turned back to Johnny. "Is he your fairy godmother, Johnny boy? I thought you two were just partners."

"We are." John swallowed, but the gun muzzle, pressed against his cricoid cartilage, made his Adam's apple jump visibly. "He's got a wife. He's got kids. Don't do this, man. Don't hurt him."

"Oooh," Carpenter purred with mock sympathy. "A wife and kids! How very touching!"

He pressed the gun against Johnny's neck and Roy was afraid his partner was going to gag: common sense told him Carpenter wouldn't like wearing Johnny's bile on his shirt.

"Let him go," Johnny said again. There was a little more strength in his words. "You don't want a witness to murder, and you have no reason to kill him yet. Save yourself the hassle, man!"

"Murder?" Carpenter laughed, and some of the men with him laughed too. "I'm not going to kill you, Johnny. No, no, no! I want you to _want_ to die, pretty boy! I want you to beg for death! And maybe – just maybe – if you're really lucky, I'll leave you a gun when I'm finished, so you can take care of that yourself. Or do you have the courage to do that?"

"Suicide isn't courage," Roy said. "It's cowardice."

The words brought Carpenter's attention to him, and the three men standing by Roy, guarding him, suddenly grabbed his upper arms and held him tightly.

"Well, well, well. He speaks. Did I ask him to speak?" he asked his men. Each of them shook their heads. "No, I didn't think I had." Carpenter pressed his gun against Roy's shoulder, pushing hard against the joint where it joined the clavicle. "This time, Mr. DeSoto, you get a warning. That's because, basically, I'm a very nice guy." His men laughed again. "But the next time you speak without permission," he continued, his voice lowered to a growl now, "I think I'll let one of these fine gentlemen shoot you. Somewhere where it will hurt. A lot. And not kill you." He struck Roy's face with the gun as he had struck Johnny's, and a blinding, searing pain traveled from Roy's jaw up to his head and down to his neck. He felt blood on his face. "Are we really, really clear now?"

Roy nodded silently.

Carpenter returned to his main target and the men gripping Roy's arms kept their lock on him.

"Now, then, where were we? Ah, yes. Should we let Mr. DeSoto go, or should we let him stay for the party?" he pondered the question for minute, as if he were capable of rational thought. "I think we'll let him stay," he decided. "Might be useful. Might be fun." He stroked Johnny's hair, then grasped it tightly and yanked his head back. "At the very least, I'll make sure you never forget the shame!"

He released his captive and looked him up and down. "So tell me, Johnny boy: have you missed having a good man to screw?"

Roy's stomach turned over. Vomiting was not far away, now.

"Do you miss having me inside that nice, tight little ass of yours, huh?" He leaned in close. "Did you miss me, Johnny? Dream about me? Jerk off thinking about me?"

Hard, autonomic muscle spasms gripped Roy's intestines. He doubled over and started to retch. The men held his arms, pulling them backward to maintain their grip, as Roy's lunch landed in half-digested form on the bed of pine needles and dead leaves at his feet. Carpenter turned to him and made a small clicking noise of disappointment. "How unfortunate," he murmured, when Roy had finished. "Johnny-boy hates the taste of vomit. Don't you, fag?"

Roy was shaking and shivering with a cold sweat, but he saw the look of unbounded dread in partner's eyes.

"No," Johnny pleaded. He was squirming against the tree trunk, his back and shoulders rubbing harshly against the rough bark, his arms straining to free themselves. "No, don't." His obvious desperation made the men laugh.

"Oh, my pretty little fairy," Carpenter said, almost reluctantly. "What a long night this is going to be for you."


	5. Chapter 5

**Three Little Indians**  
(Book I in The Firedance Trilogy)  
~ Part 5 of 7 ~  
Copyright © September 2002; January, 2010 by Hunter E. Black

Genre: SLASH  
Pairing: Johnny Gage/Roy DeSoto; John Gage/Other  
Rated: R (Graphic violence, sexual situations, mature themes)  
Content Warning: First time slash (build-up only in Book I); rape; graphic violence; adult situations.

Author's Disclaimers: This story is written for pleasure and is not intended to violate any preexisting copyrights. You may download a copy for your personal use, but not for profit. This story is a work of the writer's imagination. All characters and incidents in this story are products of the writer's imagination and/or based upon the TV series, Emergency! Any relation to any persons living or dead is really a stretch, if you ask me!

Author's Note: Neither the title of this story nor any reference to "Indians" in the text is intended to offend any Native Americans of any tribe. The author, being part Native American -- and proud of it -- grew up when the term Indian was widely used and not considered demeaning, or pejorative. However, the term is used in that way by one character in the story, and the author sincerely hopes he is well-hated.  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

~ Continued from Part Four. ~

"I should have seen it before," Carpenter murmured, staring at Johnny through glassy, manic eyes. "The way he hovered around you at the hospital. They way he showed up at the funeral to see you. To be with you. The way he even called me to see if he could convince me to change my plans and tell him all about what you did eleven years ago." He pulled his lips together and shook his head. He looked at Roy. "Just how close are you, Mr. DeSoto?"

"We're just friends."

_Stay calm. Stay focused. Don't do anything to alarm him. Try to defuse him... _

_Where the hell were Summers' men? _

"Friends?" Carpenter glanced between them. "Close friends? Very close friends? - In-ti-mate friends?" he hissed close to Roy's ear.

Any answer Roy gave would be twisted. He clamped his lips together.

"Well, Mr. DeSoto, I guarantee that by the end of the night you and this Injun fag are going to be even closer. Much closer."

"I don't get you, Carpenter," Roy shot out when he turned away. He wanted to delay this, maybe long enough to defuse the situation. Maybe long enough to figure a way out. He waited until the man looked back. "Jenny was as Indian as Johnny is. Where'd all this hatred toward Johnny come from?"

"Oooh, I'm glad you asked."

"Oh, God," Johnny whispered. "Don't!" His word was choked on the most desperate plea Roy had ever heard. "Please! Don't tell him! Don't!" His eyes shut tightly and he ground his teeth together and Roy realized that that had been the worst question he could have asked.

"I got nothin' against Indians, per se," Carpenter began, using his gun barrel to scratch his head. "Jenny was kind of cute in her own way. `Til she got uppity and thought she could leave!" His voice turned rough instantly, and the irrational tone of his voice doubled. "But this little fairy," he said, turning back to the bound paramedic, "he's another thing altogether."

The man paused and Roy saw the look on Johnny's face: it was the look of a man being disemboweled. "Don't," he begged again. It was, Roy knew, useless.

_Rampart, the patient is experiencing a severe, vaso-vagal response... he is pale and diaphoretic... _

Carpenter turned back to Roy with a twitch around his lips. "Did he tell you what he did to his sister? To his own sister?" the man screamed.

_Rampart, repeat! The patient is shock! _

Roy was glad that he'd already thrown up.

_Defuse the situation. Don't feed his sadism! Don't react. _

_Work to neutralize the assailant's emotions... _

_Don't make it worse for Johnny.. _

"He didn't have to," Roy said calmly. "I figured it out on my own." _Just now_. His voice sounded defeated and weary. He dropped his eyes, not daring to accidentally look at Johnny.

Jenny Carpenter's oldest son: the one who looked like his mother. The one who didn't look like Carpenter, even though all the others did. The one shunted aside, silent and ignored. The one who rode in the Land Rover to the cemetery, and who bore the name "John".

The ten year-old child, whose conception would have corresponded to Jenny and Johnny's kidnapping.

_"Did you ever make a decision you knew you'd regret for the rest of your life?" _

_"Maybe they have different fathers..." _

_"... at the time, I thought: I'd rather be dead!" _

_Damn! How had he been so blind! _

_And just how much did little John Carpenter know? How much had his surrogate father or the FBI told him? _

_What nightmares woke that child from sleep in the middle of the night? _

Roy focused on keeping his facial muscles passive.

_Give him nothing. _

_No horror, no shock:_ that's what Carpenter wanted, and without it, there was no fun.

"Incest," Carpenter drawled. "Such a nasty word, isn't it?"

"So's torture's."

Carpenter grinned. "Ahh. Torture. Yes, that's a nasty word, too." He turned his attention to Johnny, who was still struggling against the cord holding him tightly against the tree trunk. "But why don't we start with something nice?" the maniac suggested. "Something gentle. Soothing. Touching."

He gestured with his head to the two men who were holding Roy, and he was pushed forward until he stood mere inches from Johnny, face to face.

"I think we'll start with a display of your mutual devotion to one another," Carpenter instructed them. "Kiss him."

Johnny stood rigidly now, no longer struggling, his muscles bunched in preparation, his eyes closed.

Roy shook his head. "No."

The third man who was guarding Roy, but not actually holding him, moved forward and aimed his pistol between Roy's legs.

"Do reconsider, Mr. DeSoto? I'm not adverse to driving my point home."

Roy's muscles tightened defensively when he saw the gun. He sucked in a sharp breath and couldn't let it out.

_" ... you can't feel guilty about doing something when they've got a gun to your head, can you?" _

Yes!

"Do it," Johnny whispered. His words choked in his throat. "He means what he says." He opened his eyes, risked a quick glance at his partner, then looked elsewhere.

"One more chance, DeSoto. Let me see your devotion for each other. Now!"

"I - can't," Roy muttered. _I can't do that to you, partner... _

He shut his eyes, prepared for the horrible pain he knew was coming.

"You can," Johnny whispered. "Think about Joanne, Roy. Pretend it's Joanne. Just - Joanne."

Carpenter's pistol caught Johnny on the right of his head, just behind the ear. He muffled a cry of pain and crushed his eyes and teeth together.

"I don't remember giving you permission to speak!" their captor yelled. "Did I tell you to speak?"

Johnny shook his head, very slowly.

The gun went back under his chin. "Don't – talk – again. Unless I tell you to. Is that clear?"

Johnny nodded silently and Carpenter turned back to Roy, his expression gentle and kind. "Now, then, Mr. DeSoto. Let's see what you can do."

What it took for Johnny to open his eyes and look at him in the seconds before Roy complied, he couldn't begin to guess. But the look in his friend's eyes was clear and determined: _Think about Joanne. Think about Joanne._

Dear, sweet, goof-ball Johnny! When it came right down to the wire, all his bravado and ridiculous ideas and schemes aside, it was always Roy and the others he'd thought of first. Down at the core of that carefree, look-on-the-bright-side braggart was an intrinsically selfless man.

_Think about Joanne _

On their first date, he delivered her back to her parent's house, accepted her invitation, and sat with her in the living room while she prepared each of them a cup of tea. They talked for about an hour, and when she began to stifle one yawn after another, he got the message.

And the courage.

_He leaned close to her and closed his eyes... _

...his hands held securely behind him, the muzzle of the gun, reminding him to obey Carpenter's orders. He conjured an image of Joanne, the last one he had, of her kissing him good-bye outside their home...

He felt the soft brush of Johnny's lips, just for a second, then pulled back.

"That wasn't a kiss," Carpenter said. "I want to see a kiss. A real kiss. A passionate kiss. Now!"

"Joanne," John whispered, almost too quietly to be heard.

Almost.

Carpenter grabbed Roy and yanked him out of the way, his face shoved into Johnny's as he yelled, "You stupid, queer Injun! You don't learn, do you? You just don't learn!"

Then, rapidly, he turned away and faced the masked men and Roy felt the grips around his arms tighten.

"How are we going to teach the fag a lesson, men? How are we going to get it through his tiny little mutant brain that he's not supposed to talk without permission?"

One of the men, still wordless, moved forward and drew a Swiss-Army knife. Carpenter looked at him sympathetically.

"That's a nice thought, darlin'," he said, "but I don't want to do anything to prevent him from screaming later, do I?"

Roy almost started retching again.

"I know!" Carpenter looked at the man whose gun was trained on Roy. "Get me a glass from the car."

The man hastened to obey and was back before Roy could figure out what was coming next.

He didn't have to wait for it. Carpenter took the Styrofoam glass and spat in it. Then he passed it to each of the other men who, in turn, engaged in the disgusting ritual. When the cup returned to Carpenter, it was a quarter full.

Then Carpenter smiled. He put his gun in its holster, unzipped his jeans and urinated into the cup, then zipped himself back up.

Roy gagged.

Johnny just watched with dread.

"Remember this, pretty boy?" Carpenter taunted him, holding the cup under his nose. Johnny pulled back sharply. "One more word without permission," Carpenter said, "and you'll have a nice warm drink. Do you understand?"

Johnny swallowed convulsively, stifling his own natural reflexes, and nodded, his lips tightly closed. Carpenter put the glass on the table nearby and smiled victoriously.

"Now. Let's see a nice, long, passionate kiss."

Roy was shoved back, and Johnny closed his eyes, waiting, saying nothing more.

_Think about Joanne,_ Roy repeated to himself. _Her laughter. Her wisdom. Her gentleness. The mother of his children... _

_No, don't think about mothers, don't think about children. _

_Think about Joanne. Make love to her. Touch her, kiss her. _

_Kiss __her__! _

He leaned forward and took a deep breath. He could still taste his own vomit in his mouth.

_Johnny, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry... _

He closed his eyes, let his lips linger a moment on Johnny's, then pressed through.

_Joanne roamed with him, dancing in a moist cavern of precious delight, their movements duplicating each other, their arms entwined, the passion deep, their love deeper... _

_She groaned with pleasure, and he wanted to give her more. _

_Anything, Johnny... _

_No! Joanne! _

_He roamed deeper, nibbled on her tongue, tickled her lips. _

_She was tasting him, savoring him, her own tongue darting in and out eagerly, teasingly. She giggled with the knowledge of what she could do to him, and drove him forward toward their eventual union ... _

_I love you, Johnny... _

_Joanne! I love Joanne! _

"Enough!"

Carpenter grabbed him and pulled him harshly away. Gasping, Roy came back to the waking nightmare of his insane captor.

_Johnny... _

The man glowered at him.

"You're a little fag too, aren't you, DeSoto? You were enjoying yourself!" For emphasis, and undoubtedly to intensify the level of humiliation Roy already felt, the man glared at Roy's slacks.

The physiological evidence was undeniable.

_Oh, God, Johnny! I didn't mean to... _

"Well, well, well. This is going to be more fun than I thought." Carpenter grinned broadly. Roy's face flushed and his ears burned.

Johnny was shaking. And he still had his eyes closed.

"You're a bastard, Carpenter," Roy whispered, willing his unwilling body to respond to his demands, not sure he was having any success, and not about to check.

"No, Mr. DeSoto. Johnny's little changeling is a bastard."

Then the man lost interest in Roy and turned again to his primary target. "So, my little fairy, did you like that?"

Johnny's muscles, still braced, refused to move. The man brought the pistol down again, right behind the paramedic's ear. Blood appeared through his hair but Johnny tightened his teeth and made no sound.

"I asked you a question, you dumb-ass Injun! Answer me! Did you enjoy that?"

"No."

The pistol struck again and Johnny staggered from the blow, held upright only by his bonds.

"Wrong answer! Try again. Did you enjoy having your dear, devoted partner kiss you?"

Johnny swallowed twice, as if working blood from his mouth before he spoke. He looked at Roy with an apology. "Yes." He looked away quickly.

_Rampart, we have two victims, both males in their late twenties and early thirties... _

"Good." Carpenter looked at Roy, and gestured the men holding him to bring him closer again. "Since you seem so adept at this, Mr. DeSoto, let's see you get him ready for riding."

Roy's world, comprised mostly of children's drawings and PTA events, desperate but rewarding rescues, and a station filled with some of the bravest men he had ever met, had no reference point for Carpenter's demand.

"I – don't understand."

Carpenter squinted. "You don't understand?" the man repeated, and the others laughed. Johnny, whose bloody head had sagged forward, wasn't looking at anything. Except maybe the pine needles and twigs and leaves...

"Well then, let me explain it to you. We're all going to ride the Johnny horse today. Like a rodeo. Is that clear?"

_Rampart, both victims are in shock and extreme pain. Request D5W TKO and an IV push of 5mg. MS... _

Carpenter gestured to the man on Roy's right, and he let go his grip. Roy wanted to rub the bruised muscles, but his left arm was still in the firm grasp of the other captor.

"Now. Get him ready for the rodeo. We don't have a saddle: gonna have to ride bareback. But we're going to need something to hold onto, aren't we?"

Puking was out of the question. Not only had Roy already emptied his guts, but he was reasonably sure that another display of revulsion would result in his being shot, knocked unconscious, or killed. In any event, unable to do anything more for Johnny if the situation arose.

_Rampart, we are unable to transport the victims at this time... _

"Get his belt and pants open," Carpenter ordered. He was losing patience. "Now!"

Roy couldn't meet Johnny's eyes: his friend was staring downward determinedly.

"I'm sorry," he whispered as his left arm was released.

_Joanne! Joanne, God, I miss you! Joanne! _

_Johnny... _

_" ... you can't feel guilty about doing something when they've got a gun to your head, can you?" _

_Or a gun between your legs_? Roy wondered. _And two children who wanted their daddy to come home. And a wife who knew the risks of her husband's job but could never dream of anything like this. _

_Would never dream of it. _

He complied with Carpenter's order and when his task was completed he dropped his hands and stepped back.

"Nicely done," Carpenter praised him. He moved forward and pressed his own weapon against Johnny's groin. Johnny pulled back, recoiling from the touch. Carpenter laughed.

"Time for our party now, queer. You're gonna get rode hard and put away wet. Sound like fun?"

Johnny swallowed. That was all.

Carpenter reach forward and yanked the paramedic's jeans down to his ankles.

"Are you still as nice and tight as you were eleven years ago, fag? Or have you been whoring around since then? Playing the scene with other men, maybe?"

Johnny said nothing. But a flash of surprise, and then defeat engulfed his features.

Carpenter looked at Roy. "Okay, Mr. Paramedic, get to work."

Roy grimaced. "I don't know what you want."

Carpenter's eyes turned to two long, black slits. "I want you to get a rise out of him, lover boy. Like the one you got when you kissed him. Now get started!"

_Only so far, and no farther_, Roy decided. _Only so far... _

_It had already been too far. _

He shook his head. "No."

Carpenter turned from fury to impatience instantly, and looked at the man with the gun aimed at Roy. "Okay," he ordered. "Hurt him."

"No!"

Not only was Johnny's sudden, horrified scream unexpected, but Roy had no doubt anymore that Johnny would suffer for it: Carpenter seemed to take his work very seriously.

Their captor stared at Johnny for several seconds, hatred the only thing Roy could see in his eyes. Then, again without a word, he nodded to one of Johnny's guards and the man brought him the Styrofoam cup.

"No, please don't," Roy begged.

Begging, he realized, was easy. Surprisingly easy.

Euphorically easy.

Carpenter didn't even acknowledge the sound. He took the glass, and while the other two men held Johnny's head firmly, he forced the obscene concoction against his prisoner's lips.

Johnny gagged and tried not to swallow, and after less than a second Roy closed his eyes and concentrated on breathing, concentrated on being somewhere else...

_Home! _

_When he got home, he was in for a lecture from Joanne for his tardiness in calling her... How would he make that up to her? _

_How would he ever make this up to her? _

Johnny choked and started to retch.

_He had to get home… He hadn't told Chris how proud he was with his son's latest watercolor, the one sitting on the kitchen table... _

Johnny began to heave more strongly, loudly.

_He had to get home... He had to call Captain Stanley tomorrow. No later than one-thirty... _

_He had to get home! _

The sound of Johnny's vomiting filled his mind. The sound of the other men laughing, enjoying themselves, filled his soul with white-hot flames.

_He had to kill Carpenter... _

_Oh, God! Was this the kind of hatred that drove men like Carpenter to such acts? Was he becoming like Carpenter? _

The sounds died down and he risked a look. There was fluid on Johnny's face, a puddle at his feet. The men who had held his head released it, and Johnny sagged forward from the waist, still gagging and choking.

_Rampart, the victim may be aspirating! _

Carpenter pulled him back up by the hair and glared at him.

"Now, then," the man said calmly. "What were you saying?" He waited, pleased with Johnny's silence. "Good. Mr. DeSoto: back to business. You're going to get a rise out of him. You have two minutes. After that, one of my helpers will begin to hurt you. Badly. Not badly enough to die. Not even badly enough for you to want to die yet. Just badly enough," he added, smiling, "to help you achieve your objective."

One of the men pushed him forward and he staggered, his legs quivering. He bumped against Johnny and pulled back rapidly.

"You can't…" Roy stopped and cleared his throat. "You can't get that kind of reaction from a man who's been beaten and terrified! Besides," he tried, hoping to put off the inevitable, "he's taken Darvon. That's a central nervous system depressant. He won't be able to –"

"Yes he will, Mr. DeSoto," Carpenter said casually. "He's a horny little fag. Probably jerks off lying right next to you every night in the fire station. – Right, Johnny-fag? You should have seen the performance he put on for me eleven years ago." The man's eyes dropped to the area of Johnny's waist. "It was quite a display, I assure you. So get started! Now!"

Touching another man, even intimately, didn't bother Roy the way it might have the average man. Injuries weren't always placed politely and discreetly on the victim's body. There had been plenty of times when he'd palpated groins for a pulse or to get an IV line into the femoral vein, wrapped embarrassing wounds, even inserted a Foley catheter into a urethra.

But this... This was almost unbearable.

This was Johnny. Goofy, cut-up, braggart, Johnny.

Lackadaisical, dedicated, decent Johnny.

Pain in the butt.

Best friend...

Johnny looked up. There were tears on his face, but his eyes had returned to the blank, lifeless stare they'd had during the last shift.

"I'm sorry," Roy whispered, not moving his teeth or lips.

Carpenter didn't strike him.

_He had to get home... Nothing else was more important right now. _

Johnny gave an almost imperceptible nod of resignation, then closed his eyes to block what was happening to him.

Roy felt the cotton boxers that hugged Johnny's hips. His fingers twitched with initial revulsion, and he fought the urge to resist any more.

_He had to get home. _

_He needed not to go home mutilated. _

_He needed not to go home dead. _

_What was Johnny thinking? What thoughts had he retreated to to make this bearable? To make it possible? _

_Who did he envision? _

_"...have you been whoring around? ... playing the scene with other men?" _

"_Probably jerks off lying right next to you every night in the fire station."_

It wasn't possible that Carpenter was right about Johnny, even remotely. John Gage was a womanizer, a flirt, a playboy, almost a gigolo: but too harmless and not nearly successful enough to have earned that title.

_"Did you miss me, Johnny? Dream about me? Jerk off thinking about me?" _

_The cabin roof still needs to be repaired_, Roy remembered suddenly, as soon as Johnny began to exhibit a reaction. _Maybe he could still get that done before they left and they wouldn't have to call the whole trip a bust. _

_He'd left the oven on! _

Johnny's breathing changed and became more rapid, more ragged.

_Had the cabin caught fire yet? Had anyone on the sparsely populated mountain seen the smoke? Had anyone called emergency dispatch? _

_Rampart, we're losing contact! _

Johnny gasped and Roy looked at him: his face was flushed, his chest was expanding and contracting rapidly, his arms were bunched in tension, and he was trying to pull free of the tree stump.

_"Did you enjoy having your dear, devoted partner kiss you?" _

_Oh, Junior... I love... _

_No, not Johnny! _

_It wasn't Johnny he had kissed. _

Johnny's frayed breathing became even more irregular. His hips began to move, bucking upward...

_It wasn't Johnny! _

_Methinks the man protests too much... _

_I love you, Joanne... _

_Who was Johnny thinking of? Which of his multiple women and numerous successes - or even more numerous failures - was he thinking of? _

_He wasn't thinking of Roy. _

_Not Roy! _

Roy knew that. He knew that!

"Well done, Mr. DeSoto," Carpenter said, pulling Roy's hand away: it was damp. "And now," he said, his own hand taking Roy's place, "time for the rodeo."

_"If wishes were horses, then beggars would ride..." _

_Where the hell were the FBI agents? _

"Remember, Injun: we gotta have something to hold onto so we don't fall off. So keep that knob handy!"

"Carpenter, look," Roy tried desperately, hoping the gun at his groin wouldn't press any harder, that the trigger wouldn't click back because he had spoken without permission. "Johnny resigned, just like he said he would. That job was more important to him than you could guess. So you've made your point. You've already won. Why don't you stop now, before things get out of hand. All the FBI has on you is the implication of extortion. That's a long way away from kidnapping and murder, right?"

He had forgotten that Carpenter was not a man he could reason with. The condescending smile reminded him of it. "He resigned?" Carpenter said, glaring at Johnny first, then turning back to Roy. "Did you hear that, men? Mr. Indian Gage resigned! So when the Captain at that cute little firehouse told you he'd be in training next week!" His eyes actually began to bulge, Roy noticed. There was a lot of pressure building. "Well, he must have been lying, right? Is that what you're saying, DeSoto Fairy?"

"I told you, the Captain didn't want to accept his resignation," Roy tried. "He wanted to give Johnny some time to think about it."

The bulging eyes turned back to small slits and the man smiled calmly again, "Well, then." He turned to Johnny and the hand between Johnny legs tightened. The bound man gasped with sudden, sharp pain but said nothing and clamped his teeth together to keep from making another sound. "Have you had a chance to think about it, my pretty little Indian?"

It took a minute: the hand squeezed Johnny like a vise.

He nodded.

"Good." The hand relaxed.

Johnny breathed, exhaling as if his lungs had been suddenly pried open.

_Summers! Damn you, Summers, you screwed up again! By the time this is over, you might not even __have__ a witness to protect! _

Carpenter motioned to his men, and they untied the rope that had held Johnny to the tree stump while Carpenter shoved Johnny's boxers down to join the jeans at his ankles.

"Carpenter, don't do this..." Roy tried softly. _Defuse the situation. Don't anger the perpetrator._

Neither Carpenter nor his men, all of whom except the two holding Roy were now focused on their other captive, paid him any attention. They were busy laughing at their target, making crude jokes about him, taunting him, belittling everything about him: size, shape, angle. The lack of hair.

His assumed sexual preferences...

They sounded, Roy thought, like a bunch of jealous schoolboys, trying to make the other kid feel worthless, odd, abnormal. Anything to boost their own sense of power and self-worth.

But Johnny was a normal, well-built man. Having camped and showered and suffered through bug bites and chiggers together over the years, Roy knew there was nothing worth teasing Johnny about.

Women gravitated toward or away from him based on his personality and his come-ons, and never once had Roy caught wind of anyone – _anyone_ – demeaning his manhood, his abilities, or his physique.

He didn't think Carpenter's childish comments would be at all effective in breaking down his captive.

But when he looked, when his courage allowed him to take a glance, to see what was happening, Carpenter's men were taking turns keeping their "handle" strong and stiff for the "rodeo". And that, Roy knew, _would_ have an effect on Johnny's psyche.

_"You should have seen the performance he put on for me eleven years ago..." _

"That's enough!" Carpenter barked.

Without further instructions, two of the men grabbed Johnny and hauled him, half-resisting, to the table and pushed him face-down onto it.

"Now then, little fairy," Carpenter hissed, "I get three wishes. My first wish," he said, unzipping his jeans again, "is to see how nice and tight that ass of yours still is after eleven years."

Two men grabbed and held Johnny's wrists from the opposite side of the table. Johnny's face was turned away from Roy.

_Look at me, Johnny! Look at me! Find an anchor here, Junior! _

_I'm here! _

_I'm worthless, but at least I'm here... _

With one sharp, experienced movement, no preparation, no lubrication, Carpenter drove himself home and grunted with satisfaction.

One strangled sound escaped Johnny's lips, a sound choked behind his teeth and lips, held back by fear or whatever his mind was clinging to for survival.

_Rampart, the victim is being raped...I can't stop the assault! _

Roy closed his eyes: Carpenter began a running commentary, as if he were reporting on a sporting event. The man's vocabulary sank lower and lower into the gutter as he talked, and Roy tried to shut it out.

Then, as the man worked up a steady rhythm in his sadistic attack, he began to sing again in pace with his thrusts.

"One little, two little, queer little Indians,

"Four little, five little, sexy little Indians..."

Roy glanced back. Johnny's fingers scratched desperately at the table top. One of the men holding him, just for fun, pulled the fingers of his left hand up and back, sharply and hard. Too hard.

_Rampart, the fingers on the victim's left hand are broken... _

The man laughed.

"Seven little, eight little, no little Indians.

"No more little Indian boys!"

The sun sank lower on the horizon, and all that was visible darkened to shadow.

E!

"And now, little Indian, for my second wish," Carpenter hissed, "I think I'll let my friends here have a sample of your wares, hmmm?"

How long did it take? Half an hour? Forty-five minutes?

How long could a man endure the repeated assaults Johnny suffered?

He endured, Roy knew, but when the third man had finished with him, his hands had stopped clawing the table. His legs were no longer supporting his weight. And the quiet, muffled groans and harsh breathing had stopped.

With the disappearance of the sun that had promised such a brilliant day went the heat, and Roy began to shiver from the chill in the mountain air.

The silhouetted shapes of Carpenter's men, lining up for their chance to rape their captive, taking turns relieving each other as they held Johnny against the table, seemed to multiply.

Hadn't there only been six men to begin with? Why did it seem like twice that, now?

Three times that...

Three little Indians...

Toward the end, Carpenter remembered Roy: the men restraining him had changed as the assault went on, but he was still held in place, watching the obscene drama and trying not to watch it. Carpenter smiled at him.

"Would you like to join him?" he asked. It was a sinister question. He didn't answer.

Carpenter gestured to his men: how well-trained were they? They dragged Roy to the table.

_No! No! _

_Oh, Joanne! Joanne! _

"Please," he whispered. "Please, don't!"

_Masculinity be damned! If he had to plead, grovel, beg, do anything to keep himself from being held down on that table, he'd do it! Anything! _

_Anything..? _

But the men pulled him around to the other side, and first one, then the other of Johnny's human restraints were lifted, and Roy's hands were placed around his partner's wrists.

"There," Carpenter said, smiling. He was still hanging out of his jeans, Roy noticed for the first time. It was a disgusting sight. "Now hold the little faggot so he doesn't fall!"

Another man moved up behind Johnny. Another man undid his pants. Another man began to rape him.

Roy's hands gripped Johnny's wrists tightly.

_Rampart, blood pressure is 80 by palpation. Pulse is thready and weak. The patient is unconscious... _

The up-close look at the masked man ramming himself against Johnny's unconscious body started Roy heaving again. He looked away, looked at the hand under his own turning various shades of dark colors, indistinguishable in this light.

_Significant hematomas, secondary to the fractures. Blood vessels have been cut off. There could be tendon or muscle damage... _

A small breeze rustled the trees and pine needles on the ground and swept Roy's face like a cold cloth.

_Focus, DeSoto! Focus! Stay alive. Just stay alive. _

_Think about Joanne. Think about the kids... _

_What had happened to Carpenter's kids_, he wondered. _Where were they right now, while their father – stepfather – was perpetrating this grotesque, evil act? _

The breeze made him start shivering again.

"Why are you doing this?" Roy whispered. He looked at Carpenter and his vision blurred with moisture. "Why are you doing this to him?"

Carpenter, more like the well-fed snake Summers had described earlier, had lost the manic glint in his eyes and was simply observing the scene. He turned to Roy.

"He. Raped. My. Wife," Carpenter explained, each word punctuated by anger. "He raped his own sister! He fathered a genetic freak I've had to take care of for the last ten years!" His voice became a bit more agitated.

Johnny's current assailant was done, and moved away. There was, Roy thought, only one more to go. But Carpenter put a hand out to stop the man from taking his pleasure: at least for the moment.

He smiled, and a gleam appeared in his eyes. "Take a turn, Mr. DeSoto," he offered. "Let's see how your queer little friendship works!"

"It isn't that kind of friendship!"

_I love you, Johnny. I'm sorry - Joanne... _

Johnny began to move: he struggled against Roy's grip, trying to free himself, groaning, only half-conscious.

_Rampart, the patient is regaining consciousness. Request 5mg. MS IV, - no, 10mg. –stat! _

"Come now," Carpenter cooed. "You have to be thinking about how nice it was to kiss him. You certainly enjoyed it. Wouldn't you like to -"

"I'm married," Roy said.

_I love you, Joanne... Junior, I love... _

Carpenter tilted his head and stared at Johnny. "A lot of fags cover their perversions by marrying, Mr. DeSoto," he said.

"I'm not taking any chances with VD." Roy tried blocking the unacceptable thoughts from his mind.

Carpenter looked at him sympathetically. "Oh, dear. And me without a condom to offer you! Oh, well." He turned to the final man and nodded.

Johnny struggled as the attack began.

_Why did he have to regain consciousness now? Why? Couldn't he have stayed in his merciful oblivion a little longer? Wasn't there a god somewhere who could have kept him from feeling this, living it, remembering it? _

Roy bent down, close to his friend's face, and whispered, "It's almost over, Junior. Hang on, partner. It's almost over."

It was almost over, Roy had been right about that. Two men grabbed Roy's hands, yanked them away and pushed him backward toward two other men, who held him firmly.

Then the fifth man – only one was needed now, and Carpenter simply watched – hauled Johnny up by his hair and turned him to face Carpenter. Somewhere along the line, in the course of the assault, Johnny's face had become puffy and disfigured with dark bruises where he'd been struck.

But night was closing in, and all Roy could see were the shadows of pain on his partner's face.

Johnny couldn't support himself: the man behind him gripped him under his arms, restraining him from his shoulders. Carpenter looked at his victim: it was a satisfied look, and that gave Roy some hope.

_It's almost over, Johnny. It's almost over. _

And then he began to shiver again: _when it was over, there would be no reason to keep them alive. _

Carpenter grabbed a shotgun from one of the men who had nothing else to do at the moment, and pressed the end of it against Johnny's temple, pushing hard against the bloody wound he'd already left there. Johnny tried to pull back, but the muzzle of the gun followed him.

"Would you like to die now, Indian fag?" the man asked, almost tenderly. "Would you?" he screamed, when Johnny didn't respond.

"Yes."

Carpenter smiled.

"No!" Roy shouted, and someone clamped a hand around his throat, squeezing until Roy felt certain he'd choke or suffocate.

Carpenter pulled the gun back, swung it like a baseball bat, and struck. Johnny doubled and grunted as the gun landed hard across his stomach. Carpenter struck again, this time landing a blow across the paramedic's back.

_Rampart, the patient has sustained multiple blunt-instrument traumas to the lower anterior and posterior quadrants. There may be kidney damage... _

Again and again, Carpenter beat the man. Johnny was forced upright, a hand grasping his head and pulling it up and back as he was repeatedly beaten.

Finally, apparently content with his work, Carpenter motioned to the man holding Johnny and the men who restrained Roy.

"And last of all, my third wish," the man said. "One more for the road."

The others laughed, shoved Johnny face-down on the table once more, and pushed Roy back into position.

_Last of all? Did Carpenter mean that? Would it be better if he killed Johnny now? Would it be more merciful than having to live with what had been done to him here? _

_"I learned I could live with it. Make excuses. Justify myself. Finally, even get to the point where it didn't make me sick to look in the mirror any more." _

Carpenter got into place and Roy gripped Johnny's cold wrists. Johnny returned the grip. After only a few seconds, Roy's hands began to hurt, and then his fingers went numb from the extraordinary pressure Johnny dredged up to hold on with.

_Rampart, that's a negative on transporting the victim: he's being held hostage. I'm currently assisting the kidnappers in raping him... _

_" ... you can't feel guilty about doing something when they've got a gun to your head, can you?" _

_What about a gun between your legs? What about a wife and children? _

_Live, DeSoto! Stay alive! Don't leave Joanne a widow. Don't leave the children without a father. _

The pine-scented, silent air was suddenly shredded with a blood-curdling screech and Johnny pulled hard against Roy's grip, wrenching himself up off the table, then falling back, unable to pull free.

Another scream. And another.

And one more.

Then, only very weak sounds came from Johnny's throat. There was no struggle. Before it was over, his body went limp and Roy knew he'd lost consciousness again.

When Carpenter was done, he zipped his pants and surveyed the brutalized man. Roy started to release his hold, but the gun, suddenly pushed hard between his legs, made him decide against it.

"Well, I think we've had enough fun for one day," Carpenter said. Dark, spongy bruises were shading Johnny's lower back and blood was pouring from his violated rectum and spilling down his legs.

Carpenter turned to Roy. "Now," he said, checking the gun in his holster but not removing it, "what do you think I'm going to do next?"

Roy's throat muscles contracted in a dry, raw swallow. "Kill us."

Carpenter beamed. "Ah! That's where you're wrong. You've been a very cooperative hostage, Mr. DeSoto. You've made no real attempt to identify any of my associates here, have you?" he asked, glancing around the perimeter of his group.

Roy shook his head mutely, not moving.

"Which means I'm the only one you could possibly identify, right?"

Roy nodded, bile filling his esophagus and mouth.

"And I'm untouchable," Carpenter concluded. He stepped forward, toward the table, his eyes glimmering. "Do you think the little Indian fag is going to say anything about what happened here today?"

"No," Roy croaked, the numbness in his hands giving way to a deep, electrical tingling of the nerves.

"Do you think he'll back up any story you try to tell?"

"No." This seemed to be the right answer, so Roy stuck with it.

"Do you think," Carpenter continued, closing the distance again, standing so close now that Roy could smell his breath, "that anyone – anyone – will believe you if you try to tell them?"

"No."

"Do you think that includes Special Agent Summers?"

Roy hesitated a moment, but he had the right answer and he gave it. "No."

Carpenter's smile broadened. "That's right, Mr. DeSoto. Because one of the men here," he said, looking briefly at each of the anonymous men behind the ski masks, "_is_ Special Agent Tom Summers."

Roy started to gag, and without meaning to he scanned the five men, each of whom silently nodded, then shook his head, miming a nightmare into Roy's brain.

Carpenter laughed quietly. "Now," he said, "I hate to kill. It's so - permanent. You know what I mean?"

Roy couldn't breathe.

"You strike me as a very obedient sort of person, so, here's what we'll do. We're going to get into our car and leave You are going to stay right there and not move until we're out of sight. Completely out of sight. And then, you can give Mr. Indian Fairy a nice, long good-bye kiss for me."

He began to walk toward the car, then turned once more. "We'll be watching from the back of the car, Mr. DeSoto. If you move before we're gone, I will have to come back here and kill you."

The man got into the front passenger seat of the car. The other five climbed in, one man cramped between Carpenter and the driver in the front, the other three in the back. The doors to the large sedan thudded closed, and the engine turned on.

_Live, DeSoto! Live! Don't give them an excuse to come back! _

_Don't move, don't breathe, don't say a word. _

The tan Ford started down the mountain, clouds of dust blown up behind it making Roy want to choke, but he didn't even dare do that.

Maybe they had binoculars in the car to watch him with.

Maybe they had telephoto lenses on a camera. Maybe...

He stayed where he was until long after the car had actually disappeared, until the dark, cold night looked clear again.

Clear and cold. As deadly as any bullet.

He clung to Johnny's dead weight, his arms cramped, until the last bit of dust kicked up from their departure had settled back to the ground. Then he let go of Johnny's right hand, and grabbed his left arm as he worked his way around the end of the table. He hadn't been able to feel a pulse or discern a breath for some time, now. He was reasonably certain Johnny was still alive, but not absolutely sure.

Once he made it around to the other side of the table, Roy wrapped his hands under Johnny's shoulders and eased him to the ground. He was too exhausted to stand any longer himself, so he sank down beneath him and cradled Johnny's head in his lap. He felt for the carotid and finally found it.

_Rampart, the pulse is thready. Rapid. The victim is bleeding and in shock... _

_This isn't good, Rampart. Not at all good. _

He put his hand on Johnny's chest and counted.

_Respirations are 11, shallow and labored. There's significant swelling and discoloration around the victim's kidneys. _

_He may also be suffering from broken ribs. _

_He's losing a lot of blood. _

_There's no sign of flail chest or a pneumothorax, Rampart. _

_The patient has suffered several blows to the head, but they're not serious. Request 10 mg. MS IV. _

_Now! Please! _

He didn't check Johnny's other injuries: he couldn't bear to. He pushed Johnny's blood-encrusted, sweaty hair from his face, then arranged his partner's clothes, pulling them up to reduce his exposure and encircling his friend with his own arms. He pulled Johnny's bloodied body close, feeling the young man's heart thudding through Roy's shirt, damning him for his complicity with every beat. He leaned back against the tree stump behind him and closed his eyes.

_"...you can't feel guilty... can you?" _

"Johnny, I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm so sorry. I just wanted - to stay alive. Please forgive me. Please forgive me..."


	6. Chapter 6

**Three Little Indians**  
(Book I in The Firedance Trilogy)  
~ Part 6 of 7 ~  
Copyright © September 2002; January 2010 by Hunter E. Black

Genre: SLASH  
Pairing: Johnny/Roy; Unwilling John/Other  
Rated: R (Graphic violence, sexual situations, mature themes)  
Content Warning: First time slash (build-up only in Book I); rape; graphic violence; adult situations.

Author's Disclaimers: This story is written for pleasure and is not intended to violate any existing copyrights. You may download a copy for your personal use, but not for profit. This story is a work of the writer's imagination. All characters and incidents in this story are products of the writer's imagination and/or based upon the TV series, Emergency! Any relation to any persons living or dead is really a stretch, if you ask me!

Author's Note: Neither the title of this story nor any reference to "Indians" in the text is intended to offend any Native Americans of any tribe. The author, being part Native American -- and proud of it -- grew up when the term Indian was widely used and not considered demeaning, or pejorative. However, the term is used in that way by one character in the story, and the author sincerely hopes he is well-hated.  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

~ Continued from Part Five. ~

_I'm going to tell you a story, kids. No, not a bedtime story. _

_Just a story. _

_Because I want you to know. Because I don't want you to find out from anyone else, maybe years from now. Because I want to you understand that I did what I did because I love you and I didn't want to die and leave you and your mom alone. _

_Once upon a time, kids, your daddy met some very bad men. He and his friend, Johnny, had gone up to Aunt Sheila's cabin to do some fishing, and these bad men came along. They took your daddy and his friend up to a mountain. The bad men told daddy that if he didn't do what they told him to do, he would never see you two again. _

_Your daddy tried to be brave, but he couldn't bear the thought that he'd never see you again. So he did what the bad men told him to do. He kept thinking, I have to get home to my kids! I have to go see my kids... _

_After a long time, the bad men finally left him and Johnny alone... _

_Now, you two get into bed, and if you're good, I'll tell you tomorrow what happened next... _

_Because I don't know yet. _

A harsh, grating sound interrupted his thoughts, and it took a minute to realize that it was Johnny's voice, little more than the moan of an old hinge. "Roy?"

He gathered Johnny closer, cradling him as well as he could against the winds that stirred the mountain at night, and tried to soothe his friend back to oblivion. "It'll be light soon," Roy whispered. "Then we'll try to get back to the cabin. Just rest now."

Johnny had half-woken, struggled, cried out weakly, and then drifted back to sleep throughout the last several hours, while Roy sat with him at the base of the tree, his own legs cramped, then numb, his arms growing weak and tired, his back crying out in pain from having been hunched over the table for so long and from the unnatural position he had now forced himself into against the knobbly tree behind him.

His ability to think, to reason, had come and gone with the stars that circled above him. For a long time, maybe as long as an hour, he had simply sat there on the cold ground, holding Johnny's bloody body, his mind distant and empty. No thoughts. No images. No plans. No fears.

Just empty.

Then the adrenaline "grace period" wore off, and his synapses began working again.

_Survival! He had to think about survival! _

The chilly night was going to get colder, and that meant hypothermia, especially since neither of them could move much and Johnny was already in shock. He stood, carefully arranging Johnny on the bed of pine needles and leaves, and grabbed the table that had been used so recently to carry out Carpenter's obscenities. He turned it on its side as a brace against the wind, then huddled back against the tree stump and pulled Johnny closer again.

His friend was hot, sweaty, shivering. The blood on his face had dried. Roy checked his pulse every few minutes, monitored his breathing, tried to keep him as warm and comfortable as he could.

Tried not to think about what had happened or what he'd done.

What he'd felt...

_It wasn't Johnny he'd kissed. It wasn't! _

_Joanne... _

After both the adrenaline and survival instincts had worn off, Roy's mind kicked into full gear. It was about midnight, by then, judging from the stars. Midnight. And the horror of the day started to seep into his being along with the penetrating cold. He envied Johnny, who was still unconscious. He envied the fact that Johnny had been unconscious for much of the attack.

He didn't envy him when he remembered what had happened.

Midnight gave way to another hour, then another, all of them filling Roy's mind with horrible, twisted images of what Carpenter had done, both today and eleven years ago.

_"One little, two little, queer little Indians..."_ Carpenter's disgusting song slithered through his mind and he couldn't get rid of it. The reek of his breath, the sight of his eyes... they wouldn't go away.

And the men with him...

_"It goes back to the kidnapping..." _

_"You should have seen the performance he put on for me eleven years ago..." _

Roy closed his eyes somewhere around three in the morning, trying to conjure up in his mind each pair of hooded eyes, trying to determine which of them had been Summers.

Special Agent Tom Summers.

_No wonder the case had gone so badly, _Roy thought. Summers had sabotaged it each step of the way.

_And where were his men, the ones he had "posted" to keep their eyes on the cabin? Either they didn't exist, Roy finally decided, or they had been diverted while Carpenter had his revenge. _

_But why? Why! Why would Summers be so vengeful, so filled with hatred for Johnny, that he'd do something like this? _

And then, because in the cold, deserted hours between midnight and dawn everything became clear, Roy knew the answer.

_"...we got a very late start on finding these guys. Or the kids..." _

_Why? Didn't Johnny and Jenny's special agents look for them from the beginning? _

_"...he discovered evidence against Carpenter, having to do with his criminal activities..." _

_What criminal activities, Summers? _

_"You lost them..."Or didn't you try very hard to look for them? _

_"Did you tell Johnny he was here?" _

_"Not at first. I didn't expect they'd inadvertently run into each other..." _

_"Well, that was your next mistake, wasn't it?" It wasn't a mistake, was it Summers? Carpenter moved into Squad 51's area of coverage! Of course they ran into each other! _

_"He doesn't have a record! I turned him in eleven years ago... He's still free..." _

_"Do you think the little Indian fag is going to say anything about what happened here today? Do you think that anyone – anyone – will believe you if you try to tell them?" _

_"No." _

_"Do you think that includes Mr. Special Agent Summers?" _

_No. Of course not. _

_"I screwed up... If it costs me my job when this is over, so be it." _

_It wasn't going to cost him his job, _Roy realized:_ Special Agent Summers had made damned sure of that! _

_"All those calls in the middle of the night..." _

_"John agreed to it. We've got it all on tape... Every threat, every insult, every word. It's all on tape." _

_Was that fun, Summers? Telling Johnny to call Carpenter every night? Listening to him torment Johnny? Listening to my partner beg? Listening to him abase himself, terrified that anyone would ever learn what had happened eleven years ago? _

_"I remember, I thought I'd rather be dead! And then I did it anyway..." _

_"Do you know why I did that? So I'd be able to feel something until this damn shift ended. So at least I'd know whether I was still alive!" _

_Did you have fun, Summers? _Roy asked him across the miles. _Did you? Because if I ever get my hands on you, you'll regret every minute of it! _

After anger, and with it the newly discovered rush of revenge, Roy was left with rustling leaves and a semi-conscious partner and more long hours of disjointed, surreal images and voices.

_"... For personal and professional reasons, I am tendering my resignation..." _

_"He knew what he wanted from me the minute he saw me." _

_"To cost you your job..." _

_"Among other things." _

_"...use the code and call me. You might want to explain the procedure to Mr. DeSoto..." _

_The code? The number Johnny had used when he phoned the FBI. _

Roy tried to remember the number.

_Concentrate, DeSoto! It's like pulse, respiration, blood pressure, just numbers. Concentrate! _

_"I've got a number. 226. 766..." _

_766 - what? What was next? _

_And would that number get him into the Witness Protection office, or directly to Summers? _

Roy closed his eyes to concentrate, to dredge the hidden number from his memory. Instead he fell into a light, tormented sleep and woke when Johnny began to thrash on the ground, crying out, his head tossing violently, arms flailing against absent attackers, fingers raking through the leaves and dirt for escape.

"They're gone, Junior," Roy whispered, jolted awake, the adrenaline rushing back again. The world was grey and barren: it would be sunrise soon, and by huddling together through the dark hours, they had managed to stay alive, to fight off the threat of hypothermia.

"They're gone, now." He pulled his partner closer and stroked his forehead. "We're going to start back to the cabin in a little while," he whispered, not so much to keep from being overheard as to penetrate Johnny's fogged mind with a reassuring sound. "We're going to get help, partner, real soon. Just hang in there a little longer."

He ran his hand down Johnny's arms to relax them, felt his muscles tense from the touch, then finally relax.

_His skin was so smooth... _

_"Let's see how your queer little friendship works!" _

_"It isn't that kind of friendship!" _

_"You're a little fag, too..." _

_"You have to be thinking about how nice it was to kiss him. _

_You certainly enjoyed it." _

Something stirred, something between his legs...

_No! All he did he did to stay alive, to try to keep Johnny alive. To placate that sick bastard! That's all he did, just what he was told to do. _

_That was all! _

He wanted more light before they started down the mountain, enough to avoid ruts and potholes and shadowed rocks. It would be hard enough to move Johnny, try to get him to walk, without either of them stumbling and twisting a leg on the way.

Johnny drifted back to oblivion, soothed by Roy's calm voice and careful touch. He lay still and Roy checked his vitals again: the pulse was weak, his breathing was labored, his BP was very low by palpation. The chalky color on his face was less than reassuring. His left hand was swollen almost beyond recognition, and the dark purples and reds around his knuckles where his fingers had been broken were beginning to look serious.

Prolonged, localized blood loss leading to necrosis of the tissues. Necrosis leading to gangrene. Gangrene leading to a systemic, deadly infection - and amputation.

_"He knew what he wanted..." _

_"To cost you your job..." _

_"Among other things..." _

Roy decided not to think about that. There was nothing he could do at the moment but try to keep Johnny warm and comfortable and alive.

He decided to believe that Carpenter really had left the area. If he hadn't, if he and his men were still lurking somewhere on the mountain, waiting for Roy and Johnny to leave, they had no chance of survival. And so, for the sake of survival, which once more took front stage in his mind, Roy decided the path was clear.

_Focus, DeSoto! Focus! Live! Keep Johnny alive... _

_Think about Joanne. Think about the kids... _

_Johnny, I didn't mean to... _

_He had to get home. He needed to see Joanne. He had to see his kids. _

_What had happened to Carpenter's kids? What would happen to them now? _

_"I'd rather `use' him now... than have them end up like John and his sister did." _

_I love you, Johnny... _

_"...I care more about getting those kids out of there first." _

_Forgive me. Please forgive me! _

E!

The first glimmer of color returned to the world about an hour later. A cotton fog hugged the top of the mountain about a hundred feet above them. The path Roy needed, however, was clear.

The grass and leaves were wet with cold dew: Johnny was wet with cold sweat.

"Come on, Junior," he whispered, trying to move him gently into a standing position. Barring that, he'd decided, he'd use the old reliable fireman's carry to get him down to the cabin, but that would be tricky: the trail was steep and uneven, difficult under the best of circumstances. Carrying Johnny would make the journey treacherous for both of them.

_Johnny, I'm sorry. I love... _

_Joanne. Think about Joanne. Think about the kids... _

He pulled Johnny to his feet, propped him carefully against the tree trunk that had supported Roy through the night, and finished adjusting his clothes so that he could walk. He pulled Johnny's belt from the loops, leaving it on the ground with the refuse from last night: the added pressure on his kidneys wouldn't be helpful. His jeans secured around his waist, the top button, which was a bit tight, left open, he draped Johnny's good arm around his neck and slowly, painfully, began the long hike back to the cabin.

_Think about Joanne. Think about the kids... _

Roy started to shiver, even though the sun was up now and warming the earth.

_"I also have your wife and kids under 24-hour surveillance. John insisted on it." _

_Oh, God, don't let him get to them! Don't let Carpenter find them! Don't let Summers... _

He walked more quickly, dragging Johnny without realizing it, without being aware of anything but the terror that had suffused him. He didn't even hear his partner pleading for help.

But panic could only last so long, especially when it followed the night Roy and Johnny had already spent. As they traveled along the ragged trail, avoiding tree stumps and branches and rocks and ditches, exhaustion started to take over. Johnny was barely able to move. His eyes, when they opened at all, shone with fever and agony, and the only sounds he made were either cries of pain or delirious, fragmented phrases from a hidden past.

Only one of his muttered, semi-coherent references caught Roy's interest for more than a few steps.

_"I've never heard you talk about your mother." _

_"You never will." _

Carpenter and Summers still had one more Indian to account for.

_Another sunny, bright day of idyllic idleness_, Roy thought passingly. _Right! _

"This old man, he played two,

"He played knick-knack on his shoe.

"With a knick-knack, paddy-whack, give the dog a bone,

"This old man goes rolling home..."

The singing, distant at first, drew closer as Roy stumbled slowly along the path to the cabin. He knew most of the tracks and trails in the area, having spent numerous weeks and weekends here over the years. He and the kids had mapped a route not far from here, about two miles away in fact, that led to a dilapidated, boarded-up homestead, long abandoned and repeatedly vandalized. Just the sort of building for telling ghost stories about.

Unfortunately, it was too far away and too dilapidated to have tried staying in last night.

By Roy's calculations, he was still about six miles from their cabin, and at the rate they were going it would take him four hours or more to get there, assuming he didn't have to resort to either the fireman's carry or dragging Johnny along on the ground behind him.

"This old man, he played three,

"He played knick-knack on his knee.

"With a knick-knack, paddy-whack, give the dog a bone,

"This old man goes rolling home..."

The other camper or hiker or sightseer was closing on him. The voice was young, male, and strong. Roy started wondering what story he was going to make up if their paths crossed...

"This old man, he played six,

"He played knick-knack on his sticks..."

The trail bent to the west and Roy found himself suddenly face-to-face with a fellow traveler.

Long, blond hair, an imitation Indian band around his forehead holding the hair out of his way. Torn jeans patched with peace signs, torn tie-dyed T-shirt (not patched at all), very good, sturdy hiking boots, two canteens, and a fully loaded backpack. He even had a walking stick.

"Peace, man!" the young traveler greeted, holding his fingers up for peace and bobbing his head.

"Hi."

The kid started down the path, but turned after only a step and stared at the men he had just encountered. "Woah, man, you've got trouble!"

He shrugged off his backpack and dropped it and the walking stick, then grabbed the sagging body from Roy's exhausted arms and laid Johnny down carefully.

"Man, he's on a bad trip!" Their Samaritan had crouched down beside Johnny and put a hand on his forehead. "He's burning up."

"Yeah," Roy said, also bending down. He didn't want to have to explain anything. He couldn't think clearly right now, he couldn't explain the situation or make up a cover for it. He couldn't risk that this kid might have a ski mask and a gun in his backpack.

"Man, he needs help!"

"I know. I'm taking him back to –"

"What happened?"

_Beads_, Roy noticed. The kid was also wearing beads, several long, multicolored strings of them around his neck. They jangled while he pushed Johnny's clumped, dirt- and blood-encrusted hair away from his face and felt for a carotid.

_He felt for a carotid! _

"He fell."

Johnny was lying on his side, a small comfort Roy had tried to arrange for him when the hiker had helped lower him. Now the kid shook his head and gave Roy a long look.

"No way, man. Not unless he fell butt-first onto some kind of totem pole!"

Johnny's jeans were soaked in blood. Most of it was dried, dark, hard to tell it was blood and not mud. But some of it was fresh.

Roy swallowed, trying to think.

_Think, DeSoto! _

"There were some guys -"

"Here," the kid said, and Roy realized he wasn't actually listening to the flimsy explanation. He handed Roy one of his canteens, pulled the other one off, opened it, and gently lifted Johnny's head.

"Hey, man, take some water here. You're gonna dehydrate if you don't." He held the mouth of the canteen to Johnny's parched lips and carefully urged him to drink.

_Dehydrate? _

Roy took a swig from the hiker's other canteen and was surprised to find it cold and fresh. He'd never tasted anything so good! He resisted the urge to gulp it down, settled for several small sips, and gave the container back.

"Thanks. I think we can –"

"`I think we can'?" the kid repeated, shooting Roy a surprisingly jaundiced look. "Damn, you guys have had one hell of a time up here! _What_ do you think you can?"

Roy took in a breath, but no words came out.

"He a friend?" the kid asked. Roy nodded. "And you're how old? Thirty-five?" _Well, that was polite!_

"Not quite."

"Well, over thirty," the kid muttered, as if he'd just pronounced a death sentence. "Man, you two aren't gonna make it on your own." As he spoke, he looked around the area where they had stopped, then apparently found what he wanted.

"He an Indian?" the kid asked casually as he tromped through the overgrowth on the side of the ancient trail and grabbed two very long, very thick tree limbs. He stood them on end, measured them and brought them back.

Roy watched the branches in the kid's hands: he saw the backpack on the ground: he tried to study the kid's eyes, but he couldn't.

All he could see was Carpenter, his eyes, his hands bringing the rifle down again and again on Johnny's stomach and back while Roy was pinned out of reach, unable to help...

"Don't!" he yelled, rising quickly and holding back the branches the kid was lowering. The blond-haired hippie stared at him.

"Hey, man, you want to help make a stretcher here?" the hiker asked, as if he were talking to an idiot. He dropped the branches, well out of harm's way, and put his hands up. "Look, I don't know what kind of trip you and your friend took, but I'm not the enemy, okay? I just came out here to clear my head, give myself a little space, you know? Thought you might like help getting your buddy down the mountain. You don't want my help, fine! I won't help. But don't go ballistic on me!"

"I'm sorry," Roy said, gasping out his panic.

_Carpenter was everywhere._ He realized that, suddenly, sickeningly.

_Carpenter was kidnapping him, dragging him to a horrible field... _

_Carpenter was smiling at him, tormenting him, torturing Johnny... _

_Carpenter was forcing him to do things, terrible things, awful things, things he couldn't even think about... _

_Carpenter was in his mind. In his head. In his memories... _

Thick, white fog clouded his vision, and the world went out of focus.

"Hey, man, you better sit down!" Strong hands pushed on his shoulders and he dropped onto the stones and pebbles and didn't even feel them.

"How many guys?" the kid asked, bending down again. He took Roy's wrist, felt for a pulse, and then pushed Roy down on his back and shoved his backpack under his legs.

_Trendelenberg position, _Roy thought distantly. _The kid felt for a pulse. He felt for a carotid. He put me on the ground, elevated my legs... _

"How many guys, friend?" the hiker repeated.

"Six," Roy whispered. The world started to come back into focus, and so did a number of questions. He took a couple deep breaths, filled his lungs with oxygen, and felt the kid's hand still wrapped around his wrist. "I'm fine. Thanks."

He struggled up and the hippie watched him as if he were a high school experiment. "Fine, no. Maybe able to walk, though," he agreed, and handed Roy the canteen again.

He took another drink.

"They ambushed us," Roy said slowly, starting to form a plausible story that wouldn't give any incriminating details. "It's been a long night."

The kid snickered and glanced at Johnny. "Yeah. Real long, from the looks of you two!" He got up and retrieved his sticks, brought them back and laid them across the path, parallel to each other. "You ever been a Boy Scout?"

Roy shook his head and couldn't keep his eyes focused on the hiker when he did. His head and face were beginning to hurt from the blows Carpenter had delivered.

"We're gonna make a stretcher and carry him out, okay? Let me have your shirt."

Mystified, and realizing that he should really be following this more clearly than he was, Roy obeyed. He handed over his long-sleeved, flannel shirt at the same time the kid had removed his own.

"So what happened to _his_ shirt?"

"Torn."

The kid grunted. He laid the shirts end-to-end, collars touching, between the two poles, and pulled the sleeves under the sticks to lie flat on the dirt. Then he opened his backpack and pulled out a roll of heavy-duty, reinforced duct tape and a length of rope.

"Give me a hand, man," the kid instructed, and Roy obeyed, his mind in neutral. He had begun to feel the awful results of having struggled against his captors, having been kicked and prodded on the floor of the car, having sat through a cold night against a very rough tree stump... Of having the adrenaline retreat and being left with the horrible, physical aftermath of psychological terror.

Having laid out his equipment and checked that the sleeves of the shirts would meet between the poles, the hiker pulled the shirts up, laid them on top of the poles, and began to wrap them in place with the duct tape, circling the collars together several times to join them. He finished with his end and handed the tape to Roy.

"You get that end," he ordered and turned his attention to Johnny. "Hey, old man," the kid said quietly. "We're gonna get you to a hospital. You just lie real quiet and don't fight us on the way down, okay? `Cause this is one steep path, and your buddy's not too steady on his feet as it is. You dig?"

Johnny nodded, just barely. The kid grinned and surveyed Roy's handiwork. "Yeah, that's it. Okay, we put him on here and wrap the sleeves around him to keep him from falling off, right?"

"Right."

_Captain, we're going to need the Stokes down here... can you send Chet? Marco? Mike? Anyone? Is anyone listening?_

Roy stood up and he and the kid put Johnny carefully on the stretcher, lying on his right side, his left hand so swollen and discolored now that Roy feared there was no way they were going to be able to salvage all his fingers. The hippie followed Roy's gaze and then looked back.

"They do that, too?"

"Part of it."

The hiker shook his head and tied the sleeves around Johnny's waist. "They still hunting out here?" he asked, slipping on one of his canteens and his backpack. He left the walking stick behind.

"Maybe," Roy muttered. He was having a hard time talking. "But I think they found what they were looking for yesterday."

The kid stared at him and said, "So this was personal, huh? What'd you do, trespass on sacred ground or drink from their watering hole?"

Roy didn't answer. Carefully, awkwardly, they lifted the stretcher and started walking.

"Okay, man, the nearest hospital is like twenty miles from here, and there's no way we're going to get him there on our own. Fortunately, there's a place called Lucky's about eight miles-"

"We have a cabin," Roy interrupted him. "Maybe five miles or so. Our car is there."

"Groovy." And with that, he fell into silence and asked nothing more about the two injured men he was helping to safety.

E!

His name, Roy learned, about a mile later, was Davey Kritzer. He was an intern at Simi Valley Emergency Hospital. He resented his mother's money, his father's prestige, and the destruction of nature going on all around them in the name of science.

He was taking a year off – because his daddy, whom he resented, could pull those strings for him – to explore the world and "find himself".

He was a hairy, calming, beaded oasis in the middle of Roy's "bad trip", and he soaked up every word the kid said, grateful for something to occupy his mind besides his moaning partner's agonies.

"So," the kid launched, when they stopped for a breather. "What kind of work you guys do? Hope I didn't say anything to insult you, man."

Roy grinned marginally and wiped his hand across Johnny's face, trying to remove some of the sweaty dust that clung to his skin. He was still feverish. He twisted in pain, clawing the stretcher pole with his right hand.

"We're paramedics for the County of Los Angeles." He looked up, purposely wanting to catch Davey's response. It was worth it.

"Far out!" The intern sat down and drew his knees to his chest and wrapped his arms around them. "We don't have the paramedic program out here, yet, but I'll tell you, we need it."

"I know."

Everybody needed it, Roy thought. Everybody needed competent, well-trained emergency help. Advanced help. Life-saving help, not just bandages and splints.

"So what kind of sickos did you two run into up there?" Davey asked, broaching the topic again for the first time.

"Very bad ones."

"Yeah." Davey stared at Johnny for a minute, then looked back at Roy. "If I take a look at him, you gonna brain me?"

Roy smiled. "No. Just - he's hurt badly. Be careful."

Davey was careful and thorough. "Hematomas around both kidneys. Abdominal injuries?" he asked, glancing at Roy.

"Probably."

Davey palpated gently and Johnny nearly screamed.

"Damn!" The cool hippie doctor's exclamation took Roy as much by surprise as did Johnny's reaction to the touch. "Bet you my last peace pipe he's got a bleeder in there." The man looked up, rearranged his hair and the woven headband holding it back, and looked at Roy very seriously. "You don't have a joint, do you?"

Roy shook his head, disappointed and cautious again.

The intern gave him an exasperated look. "Chill, man, medicine's my bag, not the establishment. A little marijuana might make him feel better, okay? That's all! Don't go calling the Medical Review Board on me!"

Roy stared at the nervous man for a moment longer, then took a risk. "I've got something better back at the cabin."

The man's eyebrows jumped to his headband. He didn't ask.

"Morphine," Roy confessed, and the intern's eyes widened.

"That's heavy stuff!"

"I know."

It was the intern who looked cautious now. "And you can use that without a doctor's permission?"

Roy shook his head.

"But you brought it with you –"

"I was afraid something might happen."

Davey pursed his lips and then looked at Johnny. "You used it yet? Any of it?" His questions, for the first time, sounded like the trained inquiry of a physician.

"No."

Davey looked back and it was clear he wasn't happy with the ethical position Roy had just put him in. "You willing to turn it over to me once we get back there?"

"If you'll authorize at least 5mg. IV for Johnny."

The man laughed. "You play a lot of poker, don't you?"

Roy shook his head tiredly. "Not nearly enough."

E!

Only over time, a long time, did Roy begin to remember much else about the journey back to the cabin. Doctor Kritzer explained to him (as if he didn't know) that the trauma from the night before had sent Roy's mind into a safe retreat, a kind of mental shock.

Details of their trip came back to him over a period of months, washed ashore in his consciousness like driftwood.

Carrying Johnny along the half-beaten path, trying to keep from stumbling and twisting an ankle, trying to keep branches from reaching out to lash him...

Listening to Johnny's periodic groans when he regained just enough consciousness to feel the searing anguish coursing through his body...

Stopping to check his vitals, watching Davey check his vitals, surrendering gratefully, finally, to someone else's help...

The next thing he remembered clearly and immediately that day was the acrid smell of smoke wafting toward them from half a mile away. Fireman first, Roy knew the smell of burning food...

"The chicken! And the pie..."

Davey, who, by now, had had more of a hike and a work-out than he had ever expected, looked at Roy puzzled. "Is this another trip, man?"

"I left them in the oven when we were –" He stopped himself, caught the contradiction before he actually said it. He'd told Davey they were ambushed, not that they were kidnapped. "Before we left," he finished.

"Yeah, man, `left'," Davey said sardonically. "Like at the point of a gun, right?"

_"Do you think that anyone - anyone - will believe you...?" _

Roy didn't answer him and Davey didn't press. He was cool.

The cabin was not in cinders: in fact, Roy noted as they approached the source of the throat-scorching smoke, it wasn't even in flames.

All he could figure was that the same cold night air that had chilled him and threatened Johnny's life last night had seeped through the cracks of the walls and kept the temperature around the oven cool. There was no fire: just smoke. And not enough smoke or wind to alert anyone in the area.

"The Land Rover's over here," he said, carrying the head of the stretcher and leading the way to the side of the cabin.

Davey whistled through his teeth and adjusted his burden. "We're not going anywhere in that," he said, staring at the white car. Roy looked: the back tires had been slashed.

It was almost the last straw. Almost.

If Davey hadn't ordered him, sharply, to lower the stretcher, he would have dropped it. If the intern hadn't decided to take control, Roy would probably have sat in the dirt in front of the smoking cabin, unable to move or think or even to respond to Johnny's cries of pain.

"You sit!" Davey snapped, and checked Johnny's pulse as soon as the makeshift litter had been lowered to the ground. Then he grabbed Roy's wrist and did the same: Roy could only gape in despair at the last chance they had of getting Johnny out alive.

They couldn't carry him even as far as Lucky's: even the "trust no one over thirty" hippie intern had used almost all his strength. Johnny was in shock, severe shock. He wouldn't make it to Lucky's, even if they could carry him: he had lost too much blood and was losing even more.

"You've got a spare, man," Davey said, glancing at the car. "We'll put that on and ride down that way."

"The rim. The axle," Roy muttered numbly. "It'll ruin the car."

"You gonna worry about your car right now, man, or your friend?"

With a great deal of effort, Roy managed to focus on Davey.

The intern pulled his shoulder-length hair behind him, using the headband to tie it into a pony-tail. The look he gave Roy told him he was well-aware of Roy's current state of mind.

Or lack of it.

"You go get whatever you need from the house," Davey ordered. "And turn off the oven!"

Roy stood weakly, his thighs turning to water, almost refusing to hold him up. He looked once more at Johnny, then went inside.

The cabin was filled with thick, choking smoke. He started for the oven, head down, working only on automatic and what little adrenaline was still left in his system. His mind had shut off when he'd seen the damaged Land Rover: somehow, it seemed a perfectly mimicked metaphor for what had been done to Johnny.

The oven off, he moved one foot and then another until he found his bedroom through the haze.

Wallet with ID. An extra blanket. The vial of purloined morphine sulfate. Sphygmomanometer. Tourniquet, needles, alcohol swabs, gauze, bandages... Everything else would wait until they reached the hospital.

From Johnny's bedroom he took only his partner's wallet, making sure both his ID and medical insurance card were inside. He found an added bonus: a well-worn slip of paper with a number on it. 226. 766. 754. 91. And on the back, a phone number.

He shoved the paper into his pocket and left the cabin.

Davey had the right rear tire off when Roy came back, and was just getting ready to hoist the spare onto the axle. Wordlessly, Roy knelt next to him to help, to speed up the process.

Johnny had been regaining consciousness more and more frequently, and his brushes with awareness brought stronger declarations of pain. He was thrashing madly by the time Roy was done with the tire, and the paramedic went to the stretcher and retied the knots in the sleeves that held the stretcher's patient securely.

"We'll be at the hospital soon," he murmured, smoothing Johnny's hair again. He put the tourniquet around Johnny's upper arm and tied it in place, then pulled out the syringe and vial.

"No!" Davey's unwelcomed order broke Roy's concentration and he turned around. "He's got a head injury, Roy. No morphine."

"He was struck on the side of the head by the butt of a gun," Roy explained. "His pupils are equal and reactive –"

"Roy!"

" – and he's oriented to time and space. I'm giving him the morphine!"

Davey reached down, grabbed the small vial, and glowered at him. "Not under my authority," the intern said. "He's shocky. He's lost a lot of blood. He's sustained head injuries I can't tell the severity of, and I'm not Superman and I don't have X-ray vision." He stopped and took a deep breath and spared Roy a sympathetic look. "Man, I don't even know this guy, and it's ripping me up to listen to him scream! But you don't want to `put him out of his misery' permanently, do you?"

"The blows weren't severe," Roy repeated slowly, desperately, his gaze flicking between the doctor and the vial.

"Yeah, man, I know. But let me ask you something: if you were out in the field, and you came up on this guy and didn't know him, and had to decide: what would you do?"

"This from the man who was going to give him marijuana?" Roy pressed, forcing his voice to remain calm. "You don't know what they –"

"Yeah, man," Davey whispered. "I do know." He wiped the sweat from his face and said, "Marijuana's not the same as morphine, you know that."

Roy stared for a moment, wondering if the hippie had ever, in his life, actually imagined what had happened on that mountain last night. He doubted it.

"Look," the intern said, pocketing the morphine, "the sooner we stop arguing about this, the sooner we get him to the hospital. And the sooner we get him to the hospital, the sooner he gets X-rays. Then they can give him something for pain, okay?" He didn't wait for a response: he grasped Johnny by the shoulders and pulled him, up, ignoring the man's moaning pleas to be left alone, and dragged him to the Land Rover.

"Come on, man!"

Roy rolled the sticks and shirts together in a tube, tossed it toward the sealed trash can, and followed.

He let Davey drive and kept Johnny stabilized, his head in Roy's lap on the way down. The trip, already rough and bumpy, was much worse from the flat tire, and Roy held Johnny tightly to keep him from lurching forward onto the floor of the cab.

They passed Lucky's, a landmark for Roy, and continued on. The convenience store looked quiet for the middle of the day. "How much farther?"

"Ten, maybe twelve miles," Davey answered. "How's he doing?"

"His pulse is down to 45, his respirations are shallow. BP is 75/50."

"Good. Since he's unconscious, I'm going to pick up the speed a bit, then."

Roy was amazed at what the intern considered "a bit", but within minutes they had returned to a slender version of civilization, and ahead was a building that was clearly the hospital.

"We're here, Junior," he told his unconscious partner. "We're here."

There wasn't exactly an emergency entrance to the small hospital in Panoche. There was a port cochere for the ambulance to drive up to and unload its passengers. Davey stopped the Land Rover and got around to the back seat with Roy. Together, they extricated the feverish, unconscious man, and then Davey lifted and carried him to the front door.

"Go get the ER team!" he ordered, following more slowly with his bloody burden.

The front doors opened automatically and Roy went in. The emergency department was just to the left, and they seemed pretty quiet right now. One man with a long lab coat and a stethoscope around his neck was perched on a nurse's counter, a Styrofoam cup in his hands. He and two other nurses and a few orderlies were chatting and enjoying their quiet vocation.

"I've got an emergency here!" Roy called out and got everyone's attention. "I'm a paramedic from Los Angeles. I have a doctor with me. We have a patient -"

By that point, Davey and Johnny had appeared behind Roy, and the on-duty personnel didn't wait for any further explanation from Roy.

"Get a stretcher!"

"What happened?"

"Start an IV, Ringer's lactate and get me two units of packed RBCs."

"Blood pressure is 70/44!"

"Get that Ringer's over here, stat! Pam, tell X-ray to set up for a PA and lateral. I'm going to want a full skull series, too..."

It was familiar and reassuring, and as Roy watched Johnny being checked, hooked to an IV and EKG, he felt a relief so great that it was only Davey's quick hands holding him that kept him up.

"Okay, man, your friend's in good hands now, okay?" Davey said quietly. He eased Roy into a nearby chair while one doctor and two nurses moved and worked with the speed of a team twice their number.

"Get me a type and cross match!"

"A positive," Roy murmured.

Davey leaned down. "What?"

Roy swallowed. His face was began hurting badly now.

"His blood type," he repeated. "It's A positive."

While the two nurses continued with Johnny, the doctor came over to the seats. "Either of you know his medical history?" the man asked quickly. Roy nodded.

"Any allergies?"

"No."

"Chronic conditions, heart problems, anything?"

"No, he's a firefighter for LA. A paramedic, like me. He's –" He began to shake.

Davey rubbed Roy's back to calm him and took over the explanation. "Roy here says the head injuries are from a pistol-whipping. He's been out most of the time since."

"He's lost a lot of blood," the doctor said, shoving his hands into his lab coat. Behind him, the nurses were competently completing their medical tasks. "This was an assault, then?"

Roy nodded. It was hard to talk, now: all the energy in his body was seeping out of him. Fast.

The doctor looked at Davey. "And?"

Davey nodded once. The doctor sighed and turned to the receptionist Roy hadn't even noticed until then. "Get Chuck down here," he ordered.

"Chuck?" Roy's question drew both men's attention. It was the ER physician who answered.

"He's our friendly, neighborhood cop," he explained. "He'll have some questions."

"Oh, no!" Both his strength and his determination returned then, and Roy stood, just a little fast. "Doc, we're paramedics. We work in Los Angeles. If word of this –"

"You ever hear of doctor-patient privilege?"

"Yeah, that doesn't extend to cops!"

The doctor ignored Roy's comment and returned to the stretcher Johnny was laid out on. Someone had cut off his jeans, and they were lying on the floor nearby, along with his boxers, shoes, and socks. A white sheet had been draped over his mid-section, but as he lay there, on his side, the sheet itself began to redden.

"He's in hypovolemic shock," the doctor said. "Get me another unit of Ringer's, stat." He checked Johnny's head, pushing the hair away from his eyes and forehead, looking behind the ear to determine the depth of the cut that had broken open.

"Doesn't look like your typical bar room brawl!" he called backward to Roy.

"No."

"Whoa, man!" Davey's sudden exclamation startled Roy, until he realized he was the object of Davey's concern. "He's going out on me!" were the last words he heard for a while.

E!

Roy woke on a stretcher, lying in the examination bay next to Johnny. His partner seemed to have had every orifice in his body intubated: two IVs were running into his arm; a Foley catheter led to a bag filled with bloody urine at the foot of the stretcher. An oxygen mask covered the bruises and bloody cuts on Johnny's face.

The wounds on his head had been cleaned and wrapped, and so had his left hand.

"Welcome back to Oz, Dorothy!" The ER doctor stood at the end of Roy's stretcher, watching him critically. "You have a nice little nap?"

"Morphine," Roy groaned. His throat and lips were raw; it hurt to talk.

The man came and put his stethoscope against Roy's chest and listened.

"You shouldn't need any morphine," he mumbled, still listening.

"Not me, him!"

"Oh!" The doctor stretched and smiled. "Why do you think he's lying still without restraints?" Roy glanced at his partner. "The X-rays came back fine," the doctor reported, "but we have some bleeding in the abdominal area and probably in the kidneys. Soon as we get his fluids stabilized, we'll do an exploratory."

Roy knew that: he was just too tired to say it.

_So tired... _

"What happened to his hand?"

Roy closed his eyes: the question reminded him forcefully of every dark moment that had led them up to the mountain last night, and all the things he still needed to do.

"He cut it. We're firefighters. It happens."

The doctor didn't question it. "It concerns me," he said instead. "The swelling has cut off the blood supply."

"I know. Necrosis." Roy slowly pulled himself up from the stretcher. He sat on the edge, gripping the mattress. He took a deep breath and looked around the small ward: they obviously had very little excitement here, Roy noted. There were only three stalls for patients, one crash cart, one doctor...

"Where's Davey? The man who came in with us?"

"Waiting for you out there, I think," the physician said, gesturing with his head. "You want some orange juice?"

Orange juice. The cure for everything!

Roy nodded and the doctor went to get some while Roy tried to get his legs under him.

A back-to-back string of hard plastic chairs in the waiting room held Davey Kritzer. He had pulled his backpack and canteens from the Land Rover and set them on the floor by his feet. He was talking to another man, older, temples just graying, lines creased around his eyes: a policeman.

Roy swallowed hard and approached them

"Roy! You feeling better, man?"

Roy nodded and the policeman stood. "This is Chuck," Davey said. "Detective Charles Francis Parker the Third, that is."

Roy shook the man's hand and the ER physician returned with a small glass of orange juice for the paramedic.

"Hear you and your buddy had quite a night," the man returned.

"I'll go see how he's doing," Davey offered, excusing himself hastily.

"Have a seat." It was an order, not an invitation, so Roy obeyed. "I hear you're a paramedic," the older man launched. "Enjoy your work?"

Roy nodded. He didn't want small-talk right now. He wanted to answer the detective's questions and call some people. Not the least of whom was Joanne.

"Your friend in there's a paramedic, too?"

"Yeah, both of us," Roy said sharply. "In Los Angeles. What did you want to ask me?"

His abruptness, possibly enriched by his frustrated attempts to keep an eye on Johnny must have alerted the officer to his state of mind. The man picked up a clipboard with a form on it, and began.

The first part was easy. Names, addresses, phone numbers, occupation.

_Why were they in this area? Was it work or recreation? _

_Recreation. Fishing. _

_Where had they been staying? _

Roy told them and saw a spark of surprise on the man's face.

"Now," said Detective Parker the Third, "tell me in your own words what happened."

Roy took a deep breath, closed his eyes for a minute, then began. "Johnny and I came up for the weekend to do some fishing," he started. "Yesterday we decided to go for a walk."

Parker the Third alternated between note-taking and simply listening.

"We'd hiked a way up when we heard some noises. Like a bunch of rowdy teenagers, you know?" Parker didn't indicate that he did. "Anyway, we kept going, but then we heard someone scream. So, we went back to check it out, make sure everyone was okay."

Parker scribbled and waited. He waited with his eyes fixed on Roy, a look that told the paramedic he wasn't being believed.

"And where were these kids?"

"They weren't kids, after all. They were older, I think. And they were up in the clearing by Parma's Glen. They had beer cans and beer bottles and they were all a little high, I guess." Roy decided not to meet Parker's eyes. He stared at his hands instead. "Anyway, no one there was hurt. But I guess they hadn't wanted anyone to find them."

He took a deep breath and tried to keep his voice steady. "They outnumbered us, three to one. A couple of them had guns. They wouldn't let us leave, said they were going to have some fun, first." It was so close to the truth that Roy started to feel the quake in his stomach.

"I - I guess they aren't wild about Indians, 'cause they pretty much focused on Johnny, not me. And then," he concluded, "when they were done, they left."

He waited for Parker to finish scribbling his last notes. Then the detective looked at him.

"Alright," he said, reviewing his notes. "Back to the beginning. You said you and your partner went for a walk?" Roy nodded. "You know this area at all, Mr. DeSoto?"

He felt a trap coming, the kind of trap Johnny must have felt when he tried to pass off purchased fish for caught ones.

"Yeah, pretty well."

"You didn't expect to walk very far, I take it." And the man looked pointedly at Roy's bloodied sneakers. Neither he nor John had their hiking boots on.

"Uh, no, we didn't."

"Yet you ended up at least eight miles from your cabin?"

_Davey must have been a font of information for this man,_ Roy thought. _Doctor-patient privilege indeed!_ "We lost track of time. It happens sometimes." He hoped. He waited.

"And they had cans and bottles of beer?"

Roy nodded.

"And they were high," the detective clarified, looking at his form. Roy nodded again when he looked up. "That's very odd, Mr. DeSoto," Parker the Third said calmly. "Because Dr. Davey Kritzer was at that glen this morning. He said there was no sign anyone had been there for quite some time."

_Dammit!_ "They must have cleaned up after themselves."

The man nodded, a nod that meant he didn't like the answer. "Sure, that's typical for people who get high and drunk and rowdy and then commit criminal acts. Fact, they did a clean-up so thoroughly that there isn't even a stray bottle cap, beer tab, footprint, or tire track."

"Look, I'm a paramedic and a firefighter, not a detective," Roy protested desperately. "Give me a fire and I can probably tell you what started it. Give me a patient, and I can usually tell you what's wrong with him. But I can't tell you what goes through the minds of people like that, okay?"

"What kinds of drugs do you think these guys were on?"

"I don't know."

"I thought you just said you could tell me that," the detective pressed. He wasn't acting friendly now. "Are we talking about uppers, downers, hallucinogens? What? What did their eyes tell you?"

Roy's mouth went dry and he reached for the juice on the seat next to him. "Their eyes told me that if I didn't do what they wanted, they'd kill me. And Johnny."

"And when they were finished, they packed everything away, searched carefully around the area for any loose trash, covered their footprints and car tracks, and left the two of you alive so you could identify them?"

Roy shrugged. He wasn't very good at this after all.

"I heard a radio dispatch on the way over here. Did you know that the cabin you were staying in caught fire about an hour ago?"

Roy looked away. He'd turned off the oven, but hadn't opened the door to let the heat escape. The chicken fat or the sugar in the pie must have ignited after all..

But far too late to do any good.

"Dr. Kritzer said you'd put food in the oven before you left the cabin," Parker Three pressed. "And you and your buddy are professional firefighters?"

He didn't need to spell out any more than that. He just waited for Roy's response.

"We were distracted."

"By what?"

"Things."

It was the detective's turn to sigh. "Mr. DeSoto, we aren't going to be able to find these people without your cooperation."

"You won't find them," Roy said. "They could be anywhere by now."

"Well, since they apparently held you against your will, this is a kidnapping case. You're in luck: the FBI gets jurisdiction, and they have a lot of resources for a manhunt. I know the LA Bureau Chief, Alex Carpenter, pretty well, so I can probably pull as many –"

"Alex - Carpenter?" The world was twirling again, pirouetting in his mind. "Alex Carpenter - with five kids?"

The man nodded, suspicious now. "He's at the LA office, but a lot of fugitives like to hide out here in the mountains, so we've worked..."

Roy could actually hear his world crashing.

_"And I'm untouchable... Do you think that anyone – __anyone__ –will believe you if you try to tell them?" _

_"No." _

_"Do you think that includes Mr. Special Agent Summers?" _

"Mr. DeSoto? Mr. DeSoto, where are you going?"

_"I also have your wife and kids under 24-hour surveillance." _

"I have to make a call."

There was a pay-phone right there in the waiting room. Roy grabbed it hastily, used his credit card number, and called his house.

It took hours for the phone to ring three times.

"Hello," said a very young Chris DeSoto.

"Chris! It's Daddy."

"Hi, Daddy! Did you and Uncle Johnny catch any big fish?"

"Is Mommy there?"

"Yup."

"Let me talk to her, please."

He heard the phone clank down against the kitchen counter and wall, and then the scream of "Moo-ooomy! Daddy's calling!"

It all sounded so nice, so safe, so real...

Within seconds, but before Joanne actually answered the phone, Roy heard her scolding their son for dropping the phone and yelling.

Roy breathed a little easier: if Joanne had time and opportunity to teach phone manners to their son, no one was in the house with a gun to her head!

_"The mob doesn't go after kids... But in this case, they hired some locals..." _

"Hi, honey, how's it going? Are you going to be back for dinner, and is Johnny coming with you?"

"Jo, I want you to listen very carefully." _Keep your voice calm; don't alarm her!_ "Have you noticed a car – any car – or anyone following you?"

Joanne's silence made his heart begin to race. "No. Why?"

"I can't say." _Dammit_! Now he knew exactly what Johnny had gone through, trying to keep him at bay! "Jo, I want you and the kids to grab a few things and get into the car. I want you to drive around the city for a couple hours. Make it look like you're lost. If you think a car is following you, find a cop and tell him the driver has been giving you a hard time, then take off and let the police handle it."

"Roy...?"

"I want you find a hotel room and check in. Then call your friend, uh, Nancy? And tell her where you are and give her the number. I'll call her about –" he checked his watch: it was nearly ten o'clock now. "I'll call her at two and get the number from her."

"Roy, what happened up there? Is this part of –"

"Just do it, Joanne. And don't ask any more questions right now, please."

Detective Parker Three was staring at him.

"I'll tell you all about it when I get back."

"And when will that be?"

"As soon as I can. Now, get the kids ready and get out of there."

Joanne did not take orders well, at least not in their marriage: she was, by default of his own profession and schedule, pretty self-sufficient. But this time, she didn't argue.

After they had said their good-byes, Roy pulled out the tattered slip of paper he'd taken from Johnny's wallet and dialed again. The phone rang twice and then a woman picked up.

"I have a number," he said, remembering the phrase Johnny had used at his apartment. He read off the number and the woman said, "I'll transfer you."

A few clicks later, and Roy heard another woman answer the phone. "FBI, this is Special Agent Runyon, may I help you?"

Roy's forehead wrinkled. The police office moved closer. Roy turned his back to the man. "Is Agent Summers there?"

"No, I'm sorry, he's not. Can I take a message -"

"Was he there yesterday?" Roy interrupted.

The woman considered the question and said, "He was in the field most of the day, yesterday, but he did check in for messages. Would you like to leave –"

"Is he going to be in today?"

"I'm sorry, sir, I haven't heard from him. Do you want to leave him a message or speak with someone else?"

"No."

Roy hung up the phone and looked around the ER department: no one there looked like trouble. But then, probably without their ski masks and guns, the men last night wouldn't have looked like trouble, either.

"Mr. DeSoto," Parker the Third said, "I think this would be a good time to tell me what's going on, don't you?"

_Tell him what was going on? A local police officer whose greatest joy in life was probably handing out parking tickets in this small town? _

_A local police officer who knew Alex Carpenter? _

_A local police office he couldn't risk talking to. Not yet. _

_Not until after he knew Joanne and the kids were safe, anyway. _

"I've already told you everything I can," he hedged. He moved away from the phone and stood facing Parker. Parker nodded slowly and checked through his notes again.

"So your story is," he began, every word dipped into disbelief before he spoke it, "that two trained firefighters went out for a walk, left the oven on with food in it, walked eight miles uphill on rocky terrain without noticing that you were only wearing sneakers, didn't bring any canteens with you, and happened across a bunch of drugged-up hoodlums who would have made any Boy Scout proud by how well they cleaned up their campsite when they were done. Is that right so far?"

It did sound pathetic.

"Then, even knowing they could be identified and caught, they left both of your there –"

"We were blindfolded."

The look he got told him that had been a really stupid attempt! He regretted it the moment he saw Parker writing again on the form.

"Ooo-kay. You were blindfolded. I assume, though, that happened after you two first saw them and went to see if they needed help?"

Roy didn't answer: the hole had been found, and Roy's finger in the dyke wasn't going to stop the dam from flooding.

"So you spent the night in that glen?" Roy nodded again. "What did you do, fly out of there?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, Mr. DeSoto, that Dr. Kritzer already told me there were no footprints or tire tracks there. It means either you and your partner are lighter-than-air men, or you're lying. Personally, even though I don't get a lot of cases like this, I'm putting my money on: you're lying."

Roy waited silently.

"Can you tell me anything about these men?" Parker the Third asked.

Roy shook his head and kept shaking it, "No," to every subsequent question.

"Height? Weight? Build? Hair color? Eye color? Clothing, distinguishing tattoos? Any other distinguishing… Mr. DeSoto, you're being very uncooperative. Do you want these guys captured or not?

"They won't be."

"Oh? Does your job description include fortune-telling and palm reading, too?"

_Keep your mouth shut! Just keep it shut! _

_"...And I'm untouchable..." _

_"...one of the men here is Special Agent Tom Summers." _

"Mr. DeSoto, I know this has been a traumatic experience for you, and it was undoubtedly a long night. But the longer it takes for us to find these guys, the less chance we have..."

_"...we got a very late start on finding these guys. Or the kids. When we found them, they had to go straight to the hospital...John was there for two weeks." _

"Mr. DeSoto, are you trying to protect one or more of these hoods?"

"No."

"Had you ever seen them before last night?"

"No." Roy looked away and around. He found a water fountain and headed for it, Parker Three following him.

"Chuck!"

Roy looked up. The doctor was standing next to the police officer. "You can take the pictures, now."

"What pictures?"

The officer sighed. "In assault – or rape cases," the man explained, "we get pictures of the victim right away so we can use them at the trial."

"Pictures – of Johnny?"

"If you're feeling left out, I'll take a picture of your face for you," he offered. "That was obviously a pretty nasty blow you took there."

"Pictures of – everything?"

"`Fraid so. – Anything you want to tell me before I get started?"

"Do you have to take pictures? I mean, we can't identify those guys. It happened so fast–"

"And they are, most likely, looking for someone else to hurt, Mr. DeSoto. Whether we get them on another charge or on this one, I don't want my evidence to disappear."

He didn't stay for another argument. The doctor followed him into the treatment area and pulled the curtain around the gurney closed.

Through the thin fabric, Roy could see the flash bulb, hear quiet voices, and finally watch as Johnny was turned on his side and the sheet over him was pulled back to allow Chuck the Third to photograph the worst of Johnny's injuries.

He stopped watching and dropped wearily into a chair.

Detective Parker, Davey Kritzer, and the ER doctor finished their tour of the John Gage Art Gallery in only about ten minutes.

"Chill out, man, he's sedated," the hippie reassured Roy, seeing what must have concerned him on his face. "His mind's in another place."

_But what place?_ Roy wondered, not for the first time.

"Man, you look like you've lost your best friend!" Davey continued, sitting in the chair next to Roy. Chuck the Third was still making notes in his notebook, listening to the anonymous doctor describe in detail what had been done to John Gage last night.

"I didn't," Roy murmured. "But I think Johnny did. Maybe two of them." He took a deep breath. "How long are they going to keep him sedated?"

The hippie intern ran a hand across his forehead. "Well, the police need to ask him some questions."

"I already answered their questions!" Roy snapped.

"They need to hear it from him too, Kimosabe. Sorry."

Roy got up. "I want to see him." He headed for the cordoned off cubicle. Davey pulled him back.

"Whoa, man, don't go too fast. He's not awake yet, okay?"

Roy turned and looked at him. And waited.

"He lost two or three units of blood. Peritoneal lavage shows he's losing more. They've got to get him stabilized, get his blood volume and electrolytes up before they can open him up and take a look."

"What else?" Roy asked dully. Davey studied his expression.

"Lots of tearing," he finally answered. "But no severe damage to the internal organs. No lasting damage."

Roy winced. _Lots of tearing... _How had Johnny stayed conscious for so long while his body was being ripped apart?

"Look, man, I know you're worried about any of this getting back to your station, right? Your friends?" Roy said nothing. "But, listen, if you don't help Chuck find these guys, someone else is going to get hurt. You wanna live with that?"

_"Carpenter won years ago, Roy. This way, no one else gets hurt, not this time." _

_Could he live with it,_ Roy wondered. _Could Johnny? _

More to the point, he knew he couldn't trust the FBI. _Could he trust Parker Three, who knew Carpenter? _

_Would Parker Three have told Roy he knew Carpenter if he were part of this? Wouldn't he just keep his mouth shut and enjoy pulling the rug out from under Roy later? _

_And where had Davey Kritzer come from? Was running across him up on that mountain just a coincidence, or had Carpenter left him there to make sure his victims were found before they died? _

_And what was Carpenter's plan now? He had to know Roy would seek medical help for Johnny. He had to know there'd be a police report, maybe a manhunt... _

_Where were Carpenter's kids? Where the hell was Summers? Had Lucky seen Carpenter's mob coming? If Roy had stayed at the grocery, would he and Johnny have seen them and been able to avoid what had happened? Would any of this…_

Within a few seconds, he couldn't think any more. His mind was tied in knots, his stomach threatened to reject the orange juice, and he was sure no one around him could be trusted.

Paranoia was a paralyzing emotion, he realized.

"I need to see Johnny."

Davey had been waiting for more, but since that's all he got he acceded and moved aside. The detective stood at the foot of the gurney, listening to the end of the ER physician's detailed description of his patient's injuries.

They both turned when Roy approached.

"I'm probably going to need you to testify," Chuck said to the doctor. "So make sure all of this is recorded clearly: I don't want any screw-ups with this." He turned and looked at Roy. "When you're done here," he said, "I have a couple more questions for you." And then he left.

The doctor was adjusting Johnny's IV, reducing the flow of sedatives.

"Can't you keep him sedated any longer?"

"We need to get him into surgery as soon as possible, Mr. DeSoto, and he'll be out for a while there. I don't want him to have a reaction to the anesthesia. If you want to talk to him, this is as good a time as any."

Roy hesitated. "Did the detective talk to him?"

"Might have." It was a careful evasion and Roy didn't have the energy to fight for a straight answer. Besides, he wasn't about to antagonize the man who would be cutting Johnny open imminently.

Roy sat in the small chair next to the gurney and took Johnny's good hand. He was lying on his side still, his left hand bandaged and propped on a pillow beside him. The oxygen mask had been replaced by a nasal cannula.

"Hey," Roy whispered. His partner slowly, painfully, opened first one eye and then another. "Doc say's they gotta take you into surgery."

Johnny swallowed, but aside from that, he only stared.

"Did you talk to the police?" Roy asked. Johnny had been unconscious when Carpenter had made his final threats. If Roy had any chance of keeping them safe, he had to know what Johnny might have said in his drugged delirium.

But Johnny shook his head, a weak, pathetic movement, and swallowed again. "Call –Tom," he ordered. Then he cleared his throat and began to fight for consciousness. "Call Tom. Tell him…"

"Can't."

"Why?" Johnny's fingers were cold; the flesh beneath his fingernails was cyanotic. Pulse was still thready and weak...

"He hasn't been back to his office since he left us yesterday."

A spasm of pain crouched in Johnny's expression for a second. When it passed, he muttered, "He's missing? Carpenter must've – found him."

"Johnny – he's working with Carpenter," Roy said, as gently as he could. "He was one of the men there last night."

"No." Johnny shook his head more vehemently this time. "No, he wasn't."

"Johnny, you were out of it. Carpenter –"

"Roy, Tom would – no more – no more have taken part – in what happened – than you would!"

"I _did_ take part in it!" Roy reminded him, and wished immediately that he hadn't. Along with all the other ugly memories and thoughts going through his mind, the memory of what Carpenter had forced him to do still filled him with self-loathing.

And confusion...

Eyes closed, Johnny shook his head. "That was – under duress. Carpenter's men – were enjoying – f every – damned – minute of it!"

_So just how long had Johnny been conscious? _Roy wondered now. And he didn't really want an answer. Not yet.

"Did you see –" Johnny coughed and then swallowed and took a hard, deep breath. "Did you ever – actually see – Tom's face?"

Roy stared at Johnny's hand.

"Did you see him – there?" Johnny pushed.

"They were all wearing masks, Johnny! Remember? Carpenter warned us not to tell anyone what happened," Roy explained. "He told me Summers was one of the men with him."

Johnny shook his head again and closed his eyes. As the sedative was wearing off, the pain was coming back, and Roy heard him sucking air through clenched teeth.

"Johnny, he works with Carpenter." He hadn't wanted to tell him this yet: he hadn't wanted to even mention it until after Johnny was stronger. "Carpenter is the Bureau Chief at the LA office."

"I know," Johnny croaked out.

_"You know?" _

"He found out where – Tom was – and came back here to get – him. And me. Tom's got his own men – investigating. Went directly to the courts this time ... Bypassed…" He stopped and waited through another wave of pain, his fingers digging into Roy's flesh.

"Get Tom out here, Roy," he finally said. His words were little more than a whisper. "This should give him – everything he needs – now."

_"In the process, he discovered evidence against Carpenter...but we were too late." _

_"He doesn't have a record! Look, I turned him in eleven years ago. He's still free!" _

Roy's mind was numb. His fingers, where Johnny was squeezing his hand in pain, were numb. Everything was numb.

"How long have you known where Carpenter works?" Roy asked after a minute.

Johnny shut his eyes, as if keeping them open were too difficult now. "When I talked – to Tom the first – time. He told me." His words were slurred from the medication in his bloodstream. "Tom's been dodging him." He swallowed a couple times, then opened his eyes again. "We had – we needed – solid evidence – to get him. We've got some pretty – solid evidence now, wouldn't – wouldn't you say?"

"You'd have to testify, Johnny. In court," Roy said. "You'd have to tell them – what happened last night."

Johnny cleared his throat and tried to rearrange himself on the gurney. "We've got – to get those kids out, Roy," he explained. "He's abusing the oldest – the oldest one already..."

_"You're a bastard, Carpenter." _

_"No, Mr. DeSoto. Johnny's little mutant changeling is a bastard." _

_"Did he tell you what he did to his sister? To his own sister?" _

"...who knows - what he's doing - to the others! Roy!"

Roy felt the cold fingers clamp harder on him, pulling his attention back. "I gotta get them out! Even – if it means testifying."

"Even if it means talking about what happened 11 years ago?" Roy pressed. The thought of Johnny on the witness stand, having to tell strangers things he couldn't even bear to hear discussed, nauseated Roy.

"I can't – I can't let those kids end up – with him, Roy. If it means – testifying – then I'll testify. – Carpenter's – betting I won't..." His voice died in a spasm of pain and he ground his teeth together, harshly.

"Johnny."

"Roy, call Tom! Leave a message... He'll get it." He coughed and the spasm made him double over in pain. "Call him! Please!"

E!

In the end, Roy had done what Johnny asked. He called the FBI office and left a message for Tom Summers to meet him at the Panoche Hospital. Then, realizing how late in the day it was, he called the Captain and got his wife again.

"Roy! Hank's been worried about you."

"Is he there?"

"No. There was a fire up on the mountain, there, where you all were staying. He heard about it on the wireless. He's gone up there to help. Fire Base 15, I think that's where they went."

"_They_?" _No!_ Roy thought, his mind still able to function despite what he had thought only minutes ago. _No, please tell me he didn't call the guys... _

"The location of the fire sounded like that cabin your family has up there. So Hank called Marco and Chet and Mike and..."

Roy stopped listening.

He remembered making polite noises. He remembered making some arrangement to check with her later. He remembered hanging up the phone and staring at it, noticing that the numbers on the face of the phone were dirty and hadn't been cleaned for a while...

"What's up, man?" Davey Kritzer's voice and his hand on Roy's shoulder pulled him back to the Panoche emergency department.

"Uh, nothing," he muttered. "Just –the end of the world as I knew it." He staggered back to the line of chairs and dropped.

Davey handed him a mug of coffee.

"Drink!" he ordered. "This place is really in the dark ages when it comes to herbal tea, so that's all I could find for you."

It was a ridiculous comment, and it was perfect for the situation, Roy thought.

For the next half hour or so, Davey the hippie intern kept up a steady banter of conversation starters covering nuclear waste, meat injected with growth hormones, the United States' uninvited incursion into Southeast Asia, and general topics of no real import. Roy simply sat in the plastic chair and watched from a distance as the doctor and nurses attending Johnny came and went. Every few minutes his blood pressure was checked, his body re-examined, as if they were afraid they'd missed something, and Detective Chuck was updated.

Finally, as Roy finished the coffee, the nurses unlocked the brakes on the gurney and started moving it out of the treatment cubicle.

"What's happening?" Roy asked, closing on them before they got very far with their patient. Davey followed, still at Roy's side. The anonymous doctor appeared, looking at the chart in his hands. He handed it to Roy and gave him a very grim look.

"Wherever he's bleeding from, he's losing more than he's taking in. We've got to find it now and clamp it off."

Roy and Davey read through the last charted measurements and blood test results and Roy knew why the doctor was so grim: Johnny's blood volume was nowhere near high enough. The internal bleeding was taking one toll, and the external beating and assault were taking another. His blood pressure was dangerously low: his HCO3 was dropping steadily.

They were trapped between delaying the surgery and losing their patient from severe internal hemorrhaging: or operating and losing him to shock and trauma.

Roy handed the chart to Davey and went to the gurney. He stood there awkwardly for a minute, realizing that he might not see his friend again. It was a hard fact, but he'd faced it before, and he could face it again.

Only this time, somehow, it seemed harder. Everyone in the station, everyone in their line of work, knew they could lose a partner, a friend, a fellow firefighter at any time. The closeness they developed over the years made that a lot harder, but it went with the job.

This, however, didn't go with the job. Johnny wasn't here because he'd been injured in a rescue, performing duties he was so damned proud of being able to perform that it more than compensated in his own mind for the risks he took.

He was here because a psychopathic killer had put him here.

He was here because he wasn't actually John Gage at all: he was someone whose real name Roy didn't even know. He was here because his father got sucked into mob activities and then had a bout of conscience.

He was here because he had tried to keep his own sister safe from a man who should have been locked up eleven years ago.

It was one thing to die a hero, Roy thought: it was another to die a victim.

_"I turned myself from a villain into a hero...That's pretty good, wouldn't you say?" _

He bent down and put his hand on Johnny's head, and whispered, "Don't let that bastard win, Johnny. You are a hero, no matter what happened eleven years ago."

Johnny couldn't answer: he was prepped for surgery, unconscious, unaware of the fact that he was strolling right up to death's door and knocking on it.

"You are a hero, Junior. In anyone's book."

The nurses rolled Johnny's gurney down the corridor and Davey put a hand around Roy's shoulders. The intern put him back into the plastic chair and sat next to him and said nothing, even when Roy began to cry.


	7. Chapter 7

**Three Little Indians**  
(Book I in The Firedance Trilogy)  
~ Part 7 of 7 ~  
Copyright © September 2002; January 2010 by Hunter E. Black

Genre: SLASH  
Pairing: Johnny/Roy; Unwilling John/Other  
Rated: R (Graphic violence, sexual situations, mature themes)  
Content Warning: First time slash (build-up only in Book I); rape; graphic violence; adult situations.

Author's Disclaimers: This story is written for pleasure and is not intended to violate any existing copyrights. You may download a copy for your personal use, but not for profit. This story is a work of the writer's imagination. All characters and incidents in this story are products of the writer's imagination and/or based upon the TV series, Emergency! Any relation to any persons living or dead is really a stretch, if you ask me!

Author's Note: Neither the title of this story nor any reference to "Indians" in the text is intended to offend any Native Americans of any tribe. The author, being part Native American -- and proud of it -- grew up when the term Indian was widely used and not considered demeaning, or pejorative. However, the term is used in that way by one character in the story, and the author sincerely hopes he is well-hated.  
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~ Continued from Part Six. ~

Looking back, Roy realized, it was the small, insignificant details that stayed in his mind from that moment on. The pay phone in the ER, for example. With it, Roy was able to keep his worries about Johnny at bay while he called their neighbor, Nancy. By now, if Joanne had listened to him and taken him seriously, she and the kids should be somewhere safe, somewhere Carpenter and Summers wouldn't be able to find them.

Nancy answered the phone before it had finished the first ring, with a desperate, breathless, "Roy?"

"Yeah. Nancy, you okay?"

"I'm fine, and Joanne said to tell you she and the kids are fine. But I've gotta tell you, I don't know what's going on, but this is a little weird, you know?"

"I know."

"Roy, what's going on? Where are you? And why this secret-agent-type phone set-up, huh? I mean, I went through my secret agent decoder-ring phase just like everyone else, but–"

"It's not secret agent stuff," Roy said. "It's just – there are some guys out causing trouble. They might have decided to cause some with Joanne. Where is she?"

He got the name and number of the hotel, reassured his neighbor as well as he could, and called the room where Joanne and the kids were.

"Alright, Chief, this is Agent 99. Who am I supposed to make contact with here?"

Roy smiled. At least her sense of humor was still intact. "Just stay there until I call back, okay?"

"The kids are getting a little hungry, dear. You remember the kids: they need to be fed at periodic intervals?"

"Call for room service."

That brought a long, long, silence.

"Room service," Joanne repeated dryly. "We get room service for this?"

"Yeah."

"You've never sprung for room service in all the years we've been married!" Joanne protested. "Not even on our honeymoon! And now, in the middle of a perfectly normal day, without you even here, you're telling me to order room service?"

Her voice was pitched somewhere between anxiety, curiosity, and resentment. It was such a wonderful, normal sound, Roy thought.

"Yeah," he told her. "And I'll tell you what. Next weekend, you and I'll go somewhere and get room service together, okay? Late. At night."

She hesitated, then said, "That a promise?"

"That's a promise."

"So where are you?" she asked, mollified for the moment.

"I can't say."

"Is Johnny with you? How's he doing, anyway?"

"He's – here, yeah. He can't – come to the phone right now, though."

"Didn't answer my question," Joanne pressed.

"He's not doing too good."

"You sure you don't want me to come–"

"No! No, you and the kids just stay there, Joanne. Just – stay there."

That brief respite of talking to Joanne and then the kids – oh, Lord, he missed them! – was followed by another long period of sitting in the plastic chair next to Davey, waiting.

Waiting.

Waiting.

He got up and paced a circle around the waiting room, first in one direction, then in another. And then he remembered that he wasn't a man who paced.

He sat back down. Davey got him another cup of toxic, caffeine-laden coffee that was very bad for him...

_"...with a low groan that was almost a growl of pain, Johnny slammed the cup against the brick wall and Roy heard it shatter. There was enough light for him to see the coffee spill down the side of the wall..." _

It was no use. Everything around him, even the stupid, mundane cup of coffee, drew him back to this horrible reality.

"I'm not half-bad as a listener, man," Davey offered.

Roy turned. He'd actually forgotten that the intern was still there.

He'd forgotten that Chuck Parker the Third was still there as well. The detective had taken a chair a distance from Roy and Davey, and was scribbling more notes in his small pad.

"Thanks," Roy said, "but I don't really have anything to say."

He checked his watch: a full two minutes had passed since he had last checked it.

He drank his coffee and tried not to think.

_"Did you ever make a decision you knew you were going to regret for the rest of your life?" _

_"Alright, how `bout this: We're all part of a secret FBI operation, except for Carpenter, who's a double agent." _

Johnny still believed Summers wasn't part of this, Roy realized. But Johnny hadn't replayed in his head the conversation he and Summers had had after Johnny had left the room.

_"He doesn't have a record! I turned him in eleven years ago. _

_He's still free..." _

_How,_ Roy wondered, could _Carpenter have really gotten away so fast, unless someone had helped him? Why hadn't Summers been able to get a warrant in time? _

_"I came out LA to stay with John..." _

It had sounded so rational, so compassionate, Roy thought.

Sitting in his sister-in-law's cabin, he had thought Tom Summers was a dedicated, sympathetic FBI agent.

But Summers hadn't come to LA to be with Johnny: he'd come to keep watch over him, to let Carpenter know where he was, once Carpenter was ready for his revenge.

_"Carpenter won years ago, Roy..." _

_"`For personal and professional reasons, I am tendering my resignation from the LACoFD as a firefighter/paramedic. _

_Revenge! _

Roy could honestly say he'd never wanted revenge, didn't know what it felt like, had never been so angry or desperate as to want to cause suffering.

Until now. Maybe.

_Don't even think about it, DeSoto! Don't even start down that path! Look what it did to Carpenter! _

_"What's he going to tell me about you that can be any worse than the fact that you've turned into someone who can stand there calmly and do this to yourself!" _

_"Probably that I graduated from cigarette butts." _

_"I see you've moved up from cigarette butts." _

_"Do you know why I did that? So I'd be able to feel something until this damn shift ended. So at least I'd know whether I was still alive!" _

Johnny hadn't "turned into" someone who could do that to himself: he'd _returned_ to being someone who could do it.

_Cigarette butts pressed against his flesh. Scorching skin, shattered mugs, scalding coffee, sharp paring knives... _

_What a stupid way to express self-hatred. _

"What a stupid, useless thing to do!"

"What's that?" Davey asked.

Roy started, and realized he'd been muttering to himself. He shrugged and said, "Nothing." He got up for another cup of coffee: the source was a pot in the corner of the nurses' station in the ER, and he helped himself to it.

_"All those calls in the middle of the night..." _

_"It goes back to the kidnapping. Part of what I sanitized." _

_"John agreed to it. We've got it all on tape to use against Carpenter. Every threat, every insult, every word..." _

Every groveling plea. Every tortured, desperate plea not to reveal Johnny's secret: Summers had it all on tape, now. Easy to keep John Gage under control with that kind of evidence, Roy thought.

If John Gage survived the next few hours.

He checked his watch again: another fifteen minutes had passed.

_What was Carpenter doing now?_ Roy wondered. _Maybe sitting at a restaurant somewhere, laughing with Summers over their vicious acts. Maybe planning what they'd do next. _

_"So, you've arrested him?" _

_"Not yet..." _

Incompetence couldn't begin to account for eleven years of failing to arrest Carpenter. And it couldn't account for the fact that somehow Carpenter had re-created himself so well that he'd gotten back into the Bureau and made his way up to the level of Branch Chief.

_"He knew what Carpenter wanted from me." _

_"To cost you your job?" _

_"Among other things." _

_"Are you still as nice and tight as you were eleven years ago, fag? Or have you been whoring around since then? You been playing the scene with other men, huh?" _

_No! Not Johnny. _

_He knew Johnny... _

_No. No, he didn't know Johnny... _

_"Incest... Such a nasty word, isn't it?" _

_"...He's abusing the oldest one already..." _

John Carpenter. He was too young to have to go through this, Roy thought. And too old. His brothers and sisters might not comprehend it, might not remember all the details later. But John Carpenter would.

_What did you talk about with him on the way to the cemetery, Johnny? What did you tell him about his parentage? What does he know that no child should ever have to know? _

He checked his watch: another ten minutes had gone by. _Why did time slow down when you were waiting? _

_"Do it." _

_"A nice, long, passionate kiss..." _

_Johnny's lips parting... _

_"You were enjoying yourself!" Roy's hand between Johnny's legs... _

_Why the hell did time stop when the only thing in your mind was something you never wanted to think about again! _

_"I can't let those kids end up with him, Roy. If it means testifying - then I'll testify." _

_Testifying_. That was almost laughable, Roy thought. Johnny would never have to testify, not with Summers around helping Carpenter evade the law, keep up his cover in the FBI. There wouldn't be a trial now, any more than there had been one eleven years ago.

"Roy. Sit!" Davey was down to monosyllables now, and Roy was down to barely being able to follow orders. He sat. Davey sat next to him.

The clock in the ER inched ahead a minute at a time, each minute encompassing hours.

_"Did you miss having me inside that nice, tight little ass of yours? Did you miss me,_ _Johnny? Dream about me? Jerk off thinking about me?" _

_"You should have seen the performance he put on for me eleven years ago. It was quite a_ _display..." _

Roy rubbed a hand across his eyes, willing all thoughts away.

_"Did you enjoy having your dear, devoted partner kiss you?" _

_"Yes." _

_No! His first answer was no! _

_"Roy, Tom would no more have taken part in what happened last night than you would!"_

_"I did take part in it..." _

_"I want you to get a rise out of him, lover boy. Like the one you got when you kissed him..." _

_Who was Johnny thinking of? _

_"You been playing the scene with other men, huh?" _

_He wasn't thinking of Roy. _

_"He's a horny little fag. Probably jerks off lying right next to you every night in the fire station._

_It wasn't Roy... _

"It wasn't me."

"What wasn't you?" Davey asked quietly.

Roy heard him, but he couldn't look at him. Not with all this in his head.

They were lies, all lies.

_"I'm a walking, talking lie, Roy! And no one sees through it, not even you..." _

Noise filled the emergency department again. Lots of noise: feet on tile, shuffling clothes, low, male voices.

Another patient coming in, Roy thought, and stared at his coffee.

"Hey, man."

Roy struggled to face Davey, who had turned to see what the commotion was.

"You expecting the cavalry?"

"What?" Even as he formed the nearly mindless response, Roy turned around in his chair.

The first thing he noticed was that Special Agent Tom Summers was wearing the same clothes he'd worn yesterday when he'd been at the cabin.

The second thing Roy noticed was the expression of near-panic on his face.

And then, as they rounded the corner of the hospital corridor, Roy saw the crew from Station 51, all of them looking as if they'd just come from a difficult run, all of them looking anxious.

All of them there!

Along with two other firefighters and several uniformed police officers.

"Where's John?" Summers snapped quickly, as Roy stood to meet the onslaught head-on.

"You guys sure know how to start a good fire," Chet remarked at nearly the same moment. "What were you and Gage trying to do, send out smoke signals or something?"

"What happened, Roy?" Captain Stanley asked quietly.

"Whoa, man, this is far out," Davey added, adjusting his headband. "You guys must be pretty important to rank this kind of attention."

Roy cleared his throat and answered the questions in turn, looking first at Summers, then Chet, then the Captain.

"He's in surgery. Yes, we were. I can't go into detail right now. And no," he added for Davey's benefit, "we're not that important."

Stanley didn't look happy with his answer, but Roy was less worried about that right now. He focused on Summers.

"You mind telling me where you were last night? What happened to your men? Where were they? And why the hell didn't you tell me Carpenter was the Bureau –"

He didn't get any further before Summers grabbed his arm and yanked him away from the others.

"Looks like a private meeting," Roy heard Stanley mutter to the others. "I'm sorry, I'm Hank Stanley, Station 51. And you are?"

The introductions between Davey and the rest of the crew took place while Roy watched Summers try to control his own responses.

"Your family is missing," Summers said quietly. Roy's stomach lurched, then settled again.

"No they're not. I told them to get out of the house and go somewhere to keep out of sight. Sounds like your 24-hour surveillance of them fell through, doesn't it?"

"What happened to you two last night? I found the clearing," Summers added. "John's shirt and belt. The jackknife. And a lot of blood."

Roy glared at the man. "What happened? You were there!"

"What?"

"I know it and so does Johnny, now. So stop –"

"I don't know what you're smoking, DeSoto, but I wasn't anywhere near there last night! Dear God in Heaven, what the hell would make you think I was?"

"Where were you then?" Roy pushed. "Where were those two vigilant FBI agents who were supposed to keep an eye on us?"

"Those two vigilant agents are missing. I haven't found them yet. But I have a nasty suspicion they met the same fate as your friend, Lucky."

"Lucky?"

"We found - actually, your Captain, over there - found him this morning. He's dead. Shot once in the back of the head."

The brief fire of rage that had built inside him at the sight of Summers was drenched in cold numbness. "Lucky..."

He must have seen the men. Maybe they didn't have their ski masks on. Maybe they stopped for directions, then made sure the old man couldn't identify them later...

"And as for where I was last night," Summers continued, oblivious to the effect his news was having, "I went back to LA, just like I said I would, to brief my agents there. Then I came back to check in with the guys on the mountain: only they were gone. Your place looked secure, so I went back to LA to get a search team together for my agents. We've been looking for them and you all morning!" The man crossed his arms over his chest, waiting for a response from Roy.

He lowered his voice to a hiss. "Why didn't you tell me Carpenter was your boss?"

Summers' eyes flashed briefly. "He's not. Not technically." He sounded a bit defeated. "My department doesn't fall under him directly. He works in the same building, but we didn't run into each other until a couple months ago. I spend a lot of time in the field."

"And you didn't think it was important to tell me that Carpenter was still working for the FBI?"

"Not _still_," Summers said, shaking his head. "_Again_. New alias, remember? And all the tricks of the trade. You should take a look at his portfolio some day, DeSoto. It's a work of art. Now what the hell makes you think I was there last night?"

Roy swallowed. "Everyone but Carpenter had a ski mask," he started. "He said – you were one of the men." He waited, but he couldn't read Summers' expression. "It made sense," Roy explained. "The fact that he disappeared with Johnny's sister so easily: the fact that Johnny gave you the information he had, and the guy's been at large all this time. The fact that you decided _not_ to warn Johnny that Carpenter was back here, much less that he was back in the FBI and working with you!"

Summers let out a long, angry breath, and kept his gaze pinned on Roy. "He's the Bureau Chief. The first time I saw him, I put together my own task force to get him. I went around him: over his head, behind his back. Do you have any idea how hard it is to convince a Division Chief that one of his Bureau Chiefs is a psychotic who used to be on our most wanted list? I had to keep a very low profile, because I was the only one who could really nail his ass to the wall. And he remembered me.

"Carpenter went through my office, found my files, found out where John was, what his name was now. He bought a house in your precinct and set the trap."

Roy said nothing. His instinct, which had been almost hyperactive for the past weeks, had turned off. Burned out.

"Johnny still trusts you," he said quietly. "I don't."

The man looked at him evenly for a minute. Then he glanced at the ground. After a minute, while Roy listened to the quiet conversations going on behind him, Summers looked back up.

"Johnny stayed with me when we relocated him out here eleven years ago," he said quietly. "Very much against policy and standard operations. And I really didn't give a damn."

"That's a touching story!" _It didn't matter,_ Roy thought: _somewhere along the line, Summers had changed. _

"His family had dissolved." Summers ignored Roy's sarcasm. "He had to start all over – again – with yet another name, another history. Find new interests, new hobbies..."

_"That class I took in forensic pathology..." _

_"Where'd you get that from, one of your outdoor safari classes, or that vocabulary enrichment class?" _

"You have no idea how hard that was. And after all that had happened to him – he really didn't even want to live."

_"The worst thing is, I learned I could live with it...Finally, even get to the point where it didn't make me sick to look in the mirror any more..." _

Under any normal circumstance, Roy thought, the expression in Summers' eyes would have told him everything he needed to know. But normal circumstances hadn't been prevalent for a while, so Roy just waited and listened.

"I worked with him – with others and with him – a lot. By the time he turned eighteen," the FBI agent said, "he not only wanted to live: he wanted to save other lives."

_"I turned myself from a villain into a hero..." _

"That kid bounces back better than anyone I've ever seen in my life." Summers took a deep breath, looking Roy over critically. "I told you Johnny agreed to call Carpenter, to try to get him to talk himself into a confession? Johnny didn't `agree' to the plan: he came up with it. Asked me to help. There's nothing he wants more right now than to get those kids out and put Carpenter away where he belongs – forever."

"Nice words," Roy said finally. "But after last night..."

"Alright, fine! I'm off the case." He took a card from his pocket and handed it to Roy. "There's the number of my boss. Call him, tell him what's happened. Tell him to get someone down here now, and tell him to get someone over to Carpenter's place: I have men in position to arrest him as soon as they get the word."

"Why weren't they in position last night?" Roy demanded.

"I don't know!" Summers said frustration and anger and exhaustion in his words. "So tell whoever you talk to that you don't trust them, either. I don't care. I'll resign this minute if that will reassure you. I'm not far from retirement anyway. But I want to know what happened to John."

It was the smallest thing, the mere hint of a break in Summers' voice, that convinced Roy. Desperation: not about his operation, not about his career, not about Carpenter. Desperation about Johnny.

_What happened to John? _

Maybe that _was_ Special Agent Tom Summers' bottom line.

"Based on what Carpenter said during the attack last night," Roy began, relenting a little, "pretty much the same things that happened to him eleven years ago."

"Oh, no." Summers looked pale.

"Carpenter filled me in on what happened back then."

The haunted look in the FBI agent's eyes confirmed Roy's decision: maybe the man was incompetent. Maybe the system didn't work. Maybe a lot of things.

But Roy doubted there was anything but concern for Johnny going through his mind right now.

"Everything?" the man asked, his voice very low.

"Everything. At least – enough to know what he was blackmailing Johnny with. He was one of the men who kidnapped Johnny and Jenny, wasn't he?"

Summers nodded slowly. "Yeah. He and the others kept their identities hidden at the time. Ski masks and silence. It wasn't until later, something Jenny said to John, that John realized who he was. That's when he told me."

"And he got away. With Jenny."

"She was raped multiple times. Somewhere along the line, she started blocking everything that was happening to her. She was pregnant when we finally got them out. And when Johnny realized Carpenter was one of the men – she wouldn't believe him. She wouldn't talk to him. She was – very angry at him."

"They forced him–" Roy started.

"Try explaining that to a pregnant sixteen-year-old who's been held prisoner for two months and psychologically and physically brutalized. She needed a scapegoat, and John was the only thing handy. She left with Carpenter, I think, partly to hurt John. And partly because she needed a knight in shining armor, and that's how Carpenter looked at the time."

He paused, then looked past Roy to the group of men standing a little away from them, waiting for news. "How bad is he?"

Roy shrugged. "He lost a lot of blood and there's internal bleeding. They haven't been able to get his blood volume up, and they couldn't risk waiting any longer. It'll probably be a few more hours before he's out."

"Agent Summers?" They both turned at the call from one of the police officers. "I just got word from dispatch for you to call your office. They said to tell you they found the pack of cigarettes. - They got him."

Summers almost smiled.

E!

Roy remembered very little of what happened after that. He remembered that Captain Stanley and Tom Summers talked for a while. Then, with a few parting remarks about Roy's cooking skills and the work that would need to be done to the cabin now, he and the others went to the small cafeteria in the building to wait for word on Johnny's condition.

He remembered the firefighters and most of the extra police leaving, again after a brief talk with Summers. He remembered that Chuck the Third had not left: he was waiting for news about Johnny, waiting to see if his assault case was going to turn into homicide.

Davey Kritzer hung around, too, though not for professional reasons: he hovered around Roy like a guardian angel, as if he had nothing else to do. Roy barely noticed him, except when he wandered off for a while or went to the head. Then he was struck with a sense of vulnerability he'd never encountered before.

He remembered, as Summers checked repeatedly with his men by phone, the odd reference to the pack of cigarettes.

"I put a tracer in them before I gave them to John," Summers explained later. "When I didn't find them at the clearing up there, I prayed John had left them in whatever vehicle you'd been kidnapped in."

Carpenter, Roy learned later, had gone shopping that morning, stocking up on supplies: he was ready to flee again. He'd left the children alone all night, and the FBI had staked out his house, waiting for his return.

By the early morning, when he hadn't shown up, a warrant was issued to remove the children from the house and to charge Alex Carpenter with child neglect and endangerment.

By late afternoon, that was the least of Carpenter's worries. Thanks to the cigarettes in the trunk of his car, Carpenter was facing multiple weapons charges, as well as charges of assault, kidnapping, attempted murder, fraud, and a host of others Roy couldn't keep track of when Summers detailed them.

"Best of all," the agent concluded, "once we had a warrant to get the kids, it was easy to get one to search his house. Guess what he has growing in his back yard."

Roy shook his head, too weary to guess.

"Foxglove."

_Foxglove! Digitalis. _

"That's murder one," Summers informed him.

"What about the evidence he tried to frame Johnny with?"

"Pathetic as it was, it shouldn't be much of a problem," Summers concluded. "My guess is that he knew John wouldn't be convicted on that evidence, but it was enough to make his life – and yours – hell while you battled it."

"What about the others?" Roy remembered asking. "His henchmen?"

"That's going to take a little longer," Summers admitted. "Anything you can remember, anything you can tell us, would help. If Summers can't be convinced to cooperate, we'll probably be chasing phantoms for the next twenty years."

"Like you've been doing for the last eleven?" Roy pointed out. It was, perhaps, a low blow. But Roy didn't pay much attention to Summers' reaction in any case.

It was well past dark when the surgeon finally came back to the waiting room with the news they'd been waiting for.

"He's stabilized," the man said. "That's the best I can say. Whoever worked him over did a thorough job. Both kidneys are badly bruised. He had internal bleeding and some damage to the muscle wall. If he can hold his own for the next few hours, he should be okay."

"Can we see him?" Roy asked.

"He's in recovery. He's not awake yet. He might not really be conscious or alert for some time. But if you want to..."

He let Roy and Tom Summers in together, urging them to keep their stay short. They did: Johnny was not responsive to any of their words of encouragement or support or comfort. His face was disfigured from the bruises and wounds on his head. His left hand had been re-wrapped again: the fingertips, all that showed through the gauze, were purple and red and swollen from the broken bones.

"We caught the bastard, Johnny," Summers whispered to the unconscious man. "He's in custody. The kids are safe." When he had finished, he left the area quickly, his eyes filled.

Roy let Summers go find the crew of Station 51 and tell them the news. He called Joanne to let her know she could return to the house.

"Tomorrow," he decided. "Enjoy the night there."

"I'd enjoy it more with you," she suggested.

"I've gotta stay here a little longer," he apologized. "I miss you."

"I love you, too," she said.

When Johnny was moved to intensive care, Roy and Summers followed.

"I'm sorry," the unit nurse apologized. "Immediate next of kin, only."

"Mr. Gage is in the protective custody of the FBI," Summers explained, using his badge as a visual aid. "And this," he added, gesturing to Roy, "is his immediate next of kin."

E!

Roy didn't remember falling asleep in the ICU, his head cradled in his folded arms, resting on the edge of Johnny's bed. The quiet, rhythmic sounds of the EKG monitor soon synchronized with his own heart beat, a hypnotizing effect.

He did remember the dreams. The nightmares.

_"Friends? - Very close friends? - In-ti-mate friends?" _

_"Kiss him." _

_"No." _

_"One more chance, DeSoto..." _

_I have to get home! _

_I can't do this to Johnny... _

_Joanne..? _

_"I - can't." _

_"You can..." _

_The soft brush of Johnny's lips... _

_"That wasn't a kiss...I want to see a real kiss. A passionate kiss. Now!" _

_Johnny roamed with him, dancing in a cavern of delight, their movements duplicating each other, their arms entwined, the passion deep, their love deeper... _

_Joanne... _

_He groaned with pleasure, and he wanted to give more... _

_Johnny... _

_"You're a little fag too, aren't you, DeSoto? You were enjoying yourself..." _

"_Probably jerks off lying right next to you every night in the fire station. – Right, Johnny-fag? _

_"Did you enjoy having your dear, devoted partner kiss you?" _

_"Yes..." _

_"... Get a rise out of him, lover boy. Like the one you got when you kissed him..." _

_His hand moving tentatively, fearfully at first... then more decisively, more actively... _

_... Johnny's breath growing more ragged... _

_No! _

_"I'm married." _

_"A lot of fags cover their perversions by marrying..." _

A hand touched his arm lightly, and he woke with a start.

Johnny's eyes, puffy and bloodshot, stared at him from the pillow. "The kids?" he asked, his lips parched and his throat rasping from the endotracheal tube used during his surgery.

"They're in police custody," Roy told him. It was hard to meet his eyes: hard to look at them now without seeing last night's horror.

"Joanne?"

"She's fine. They're safe." He rubbed his eyes and tried to shake the images out of his mind.

Johnny looked at him, shook his head, and tried to smile. "They won't go away," he whispered, his lips and teeth barely moving. "Not for a long time."

"Johnny -"

"Where's Tom?"

"Johnny, about – about what they forced me – to do last night..."

Johnny's face lost all expression. "I don't remember – anything they forced you to do."

It was a bald-faced and pathetic lie. But it was also a boundary Roy knew not to cross.

Not now, at least.

Roy held his partner's gaze for a few seconds, then said, "Summers is in the waiting room." He stood up. "I'll go get him."

Johnny's hand reached for him, not quite making contact, but stopping his exit nonetheless.

"You're alive, Roy," he whispered. His voice still scraped with every word. "If he'd killed you…" He closed his eyes quickly, tightly. He looked back. "I couldn't have lived with that." He swallowed hard and looked away.

_"Did you enjoy having your dear, devoted partner kiss you?" _

_No! _

_Yes... _

Roy shut his eyes and rubbed them again. Two weeks ago, Johnny's words would have been an uncomplicated statement of friendship. A deep friendship built upon years of facing terrible situations together; working as a team; fending off boring hours of inactivity with wild stories and stupid schemes.

Two weeks ago, those words would have left Roy with a smile on his face and a reassurance that he and his partner were, in fact, a very good team.

Now, however, the words were coded to forgive Roy his complicity in the brutal assault. Were they also coded to tell him something more?

_"... have you been whoring around... playing the scene with other men?" _

_"Trying to tell me something?" _

_"...I'm not that subtle." _

_"That's true..." _

_"... I can lie like hell if I really want to..." _

"I'll tell Summers you're awake," Roy said, making a swift exit.

E!

Roy made the trek to the hospital in Panoche each night to visit Johnny. Sometimes Summers was there when he arrived. He always left when Roy showed up, and Roy never stayed long. Staying too long would lead to discussions Roy wasn't ready to have.

Only once did Roy take the opportunity to talk at all with Summers. After one awkwardly–timed simultaneous visit to John's room, they rode the elevator down together.

"Just out of curiosity," Roy tried, "who killed Johnny's mother? Was it Carpenter?"

He didn't have to look at Summers' face: he could feel the shock wave from the unexpected question. The FBI agent stared straight ahead at the elevator doors. "No one ever said she died."

_"Yeah, you did... At the hospital..."_

"Was that the murder Johnny mentioned?" Roy pressed, ignoring Summers' first answer. "His mother's?"

"No," Summers confessed. "Carpenter didn't kill John's mother."

"Then who did?"

The elevator doors opened onto the front lobby and Summers stepped out. He met Roy's eyes for just a second. "That topic isn't open for discussion." And with that, he left the building.

_"I've never heard you talk about your mother." _

_"You never will." _

One little Indian was still unaccounted for.

E!E!E!

To Be Continued…


End file.
